


Saint Judas

by sajere1



Category: Dimension 20, Dimension 20: Fantasy High, Dungeons & Dragons - All Media Types, Fantasy High
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexuality Spectrum, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Multi, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2020-08-19 10:14:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 39,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20208070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sajere1/pseuds/sajere1
Summary: At eighteen years old, Riz Gukgak was murdered on the hill next to the bloodrush field. Now, six years later, his brief time in the afterlife pre-revivification is just a blip on the back edge of his radar. Riz is a man with places to be, coffee to drink, sleep to not get. The cold case of his own murder has been discarded at the bottom of his desk drawer, to waste in dust and stains indefinitely.Until Fabian Seacaster walks off the boat and back into Elmville.





	1. Cleopatra

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Riz's life spins on. Kristen deals with some girl trouble. Fabian gets caught red-handed.

To say that Riz is a credit to his division is understating the matter. In the Elmville police department, Riz _is_ his division. Between the otherwise-competent precinct captain’s endless piles of paperwork and the complete ineptitude of his well-meaning coworkers, Riz has been the driving force of any and all local investigations since he was a freshman in high school. Now, as an official member of the payroll and the essential lead of any and all cases forever, his part is not just important but crucial, essential, unique even – 

“Hot date last night?” Fiona says.

Riz glares blearily, severity of his gaze matched only by the bags under his eyes. “No,” he says, gesturing to the piles of paperwork littering his desk. How did she even get into his office without making noise. She’s not a rogue. Riz immediately makes a note to put some sort of trap to alert him in the door frame, for next time.

“It was a joke.” Fiona rolls her eyes. She pushes a cup of fresh coffee across the desk at him and Riz immediately straightens up, the suspicious crinkle of his forehead smoothing out. “You should try them sometimes.”

“I can be funny,” Riz says. He cautiously sniffs the coffee.

Fiona doesn’t bother to dignify him with a response – which is good, because he’s stopped paying attention, throwing the cup back and chugging until his throat burns too much to continue. There are two competent people in the precinct, he amends in his head, wiping off his mouth with the back of his hand. Fiona’s a half-elf – a paladin – who’s young, even younger than Riz, and just transferred recently. He doesn’t actually know what type of paladin she is, not because she hasn’t explained it or put it on a resume, but because Riz doesn’t know jack shit about paladins, and quite frankly feels that his life will be much easier if he continues to not know jack shit about paladins.

“Did you work the entire night?” Fiona picks at the edge of Riz’s papers. He has to resist the urge to straighten them as she leafs through the pile, thick eyebrows slowly rising the more work she sees. She’s not a pretty girl, exactly – not that Riz has much of an eye for that sort of thing anyway. She’s…stately.

“Seems like it.” Riz rubs his eyes. He’s not quite at a level of exhaustion yet, but he sure could go for a sleep spell right about now. “Captain was overwhelmed with paperwork for that prisoner transfer. I told her I’d get it done for her by this morning. Then Arthur Aguefort called for that last-minute emergency, and. Y’know.” He makes a vague sideways gesture.

“Yeah.” Fiona shakes her head. “I can’t believe you went to that school. That was insane.”

“That’s just how it is in Elmville,” Riz shrugs. “Those freshmen actually had a way better first day than we did.”

Fiona gives him one of those Looks she sometimes does, the look that says Riz’s hometown is fucking weird by the account of literally anyone except himself. He accepts it gracefully. It really wasn’t that bad. None of the kids even died this time. “Right,” Fiona says slowly as Riz pulls another, more measured drink from his coffee.

At age 24, Riz Gukgak has grown into some parts of himself and out of others. His hair still curls wild, his goblin face still long and skeletal, his freckles still prominent, but in many ways, he is less an aged-up version of his teen self and more a poorly constructed recreation. The shadow of a beard over his jaw is heavy. Where he once carried himself unnervingly straight and professional, his slouch is severe enough now that he doesn’t seem to have grown an inch. His outfit, once ironed daily, stretches in wrinkles, shirt polka-dotted with coffee stains. He isn’t even bothering with the pretense of a hat anymore, just combing his fingers through his hair and hoping it suffices. Riz Gukgak, once a put-together briefcase boy teen detective, has now become – and he is very proud of this – a Real Motherfucking Investigator.

“So,” Riz says when his coffee is drained, significantly perked up, “What’s the status?”

“Same shit as usual. Just keeping an eye out and watching traffic ‘til the prisoner gets transferred tonight.” Fiona swings one of his visitor chairs around, settling in backwards so that she can prop her chin on the backing. “I was gonna ask – do we know anything about this guy? What he’s up to, why they’re sending him here?”

“Not much. Isn’t technically a prisoner, at least.” Technically, what Riz has is confidential, but it’s confidential in that he also was not allowed to see it and had to slip it from the captain’s desk. It’s not like he’ll get in much more trouble for talking about it. “Guy turned himself in. Offered information in exchange for amnesty. Looks like he’s on the run from someone. That’s all we’ve got.”

“Nothing else?”

Riz shakes his head. “No class, no race, no description. They don’t even put his name – just a codename.” Riz traces his finger across a pen, easing the tip across his thumb. “‘The Privateer.’”

Fiona grins. “That’s very dumb.”

“Sure fucking is.”

“How are we supposed to know it’s him if he we don’t know what he looks like?”

“He’s being accompanied. Armed guard.” Riz frowns across the desk, lips puckering as he looks Fiona up and down. “Have you met Angela Worrel?”

“No.”

“She’s the head of something-or-other in the capital. She’ll probably be with them. And she’ll be a dick about it. Put me in jail once.” He puts up a finger before Fiona can question that. “Let me finish the paperwork, and I’ll give you the rundown on her.”

Fiona grunts, sitting back in her chair. “I might have my own work to do, you know,” she says. “You’re obstructing justice.”

“Yeah, I’m really holding you here against your will.” Riz watches her pull out her crystal and goes back to his work, his wrinkles softer. As he bends over, he can feel the pull of sinew and scar tissue over his chest, aching the way it only does when he hasn’t slept in too long, or when he thinks too hard about where he’s been. He rubs a hand, idle, over his torso, along the line of the scar sliced across it, and feels his spine shiver at the phantom memory.

“Riz?” He looks up at Fiona. “You okay?”

Riz Gukgak is 24 years old. 6 years ago, he was murdered. He gets up every day, and his reconstructed heart bangs like drumsticks against his ribs, and he solves mysteries, and the puckered scar from his time in the afterlife usually only bothers him when he agitates it.

“Yeah.” Riz manages a smile. “I’m fine.”

* * *

Low jazz is playing crackly and distant when Riz finally jimmies the lock to his apartment. It’s a recognizable tune, a theme song, from the TV that is often left running in the cramped kitchenette. Riz drops his lockpicks onto what is supposed to be a key rack, ears twitching as the music reaches its peak.

Kristen Applebees is sitting, alone, in the kitchen, at the patterned folding table that was supposed to be temporary. Her crystal is face down on the table, and she’s nursing the same coffee cup that Riz had pushed into her hands last night. Her hair is half shaved; what’s left has been parted to the right, dyed sporadic streaks of turquoise. Her shirt is baggy, faded, one of Fig and Gorgug’s first pieces of merchandise, back when they were still called _Fig and the Cig Figs._ Her eyes, too, are baggy, faded. Her shoulders. Her expression.

She puts up a hand when Riz walks in. “Let me watch this one, it’s the pigeon episode,” she says. “I made coffee for you. We can talk after.”

Riz’s eyes dart from Kristen to the coffeemaker to the TV Screen. “Kristen,” he starts.

Kristen gives him those wide pleading eyes, the same ones from his front door last night. “Pleeease.”

“You’ve seen this entire show four times at least.”

“It’s the _pigeon episode.”_

“That means nothing to me.”

Kristen flaps a hand at him. Riz looks at her for a long moment. Finally, he sighs, shakes his head at her enraptured expression, and makes his move on the coffeemaker. He pulls the pot out and swirls it, lips pursed as he evaluates the brown sludge inside. It’s cold, but not freezing, and Riz’s taste buds have been thoroughly grated from years of eating his own cooking. It’s probably fine.

By the time he drops into the chair next to Kristen, coffee in hand, he’s already lost the plot of whatever’s happening on screen. The dialogue is well-written and acerbic, though, and the image of pigeons filling a man’s apartment to burst is a little funny, so Riz concedes an unwilling point to the show. Riz often concedes unwilling points to this show.

“Okay,” Kristen says half an hour later, when the episode closes on the image of the main character heading into a pigeon wedding. “Sorry. I love that one. Season one, man.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

Kristen makes a distorted noise, hand flying to her chest. “You haven’t seen it?!”

“Bits and pieces.” Riz sips his own coffee. The station is rolling right into the next episode, that same smooth jazz powering through to the image of the title card – _The Unsleeping City._ “It’s good background noise. I don’t understand the plot at all, but y’know.”

“We have to binge it together.”

“Nah.”

“Riiiiiiz,” Kristen says, but when Riz gives her a Very Adult Cocked Eyebrow Expression she recedes back into herself, hands curling again around her mug.

“We should talk,” Riz says. Gently. He thinks. Riz doesn’t really have a head for these, like, sensitive things, and across Kristen’s many, many life crises, has usually ended up ducking out and letting the others handle it so he doesn’t make things worse. “You don’t. Have to tell me. Why, uh.” He gestures to her whole being. “You know. But. I mean.” He blows out in a puff of frustrated air. “Do you, like, need a place to stay indefinitely, or just for the night?”

“I – “ Kristen rotates her jaw, a little clicking sound of nervous energy that her human ears almost certainly can’t pick up. “I don’t know,” she says, and her voice catches. “We, uh – she – I mean, Tracker – “ Kristen stops. Clears her throat. “I don’t know. I. Definitely don’t want to go back today. But. I don’t know. If it’s a long term thing.”

“Okay.” Riz makes an aborted motion to grab her hand, last second rapping the table instead. “That’s fine. I mean – Adaine’s, y’know, on Oracle business, you’re free to take her bed. As long as you need. Until Adaine gets back and then, like, you can still stay, but probably you’ll have to sleep on the couch or something. But – uh, if this ends up being longer than a day.” Riz gestures to the fridge. “Groceries, y’know?”

“Oh – yeah, yeah, I’ll pay,” Kristen says, which is nice after the many experiences of Fig using Hershey kisses as payment for bumming over instead of anything useful. “Of course. And – if it’s, uh, really, done. I’ll get my own place. But – “

“Until then.”

“Yeah. Until then. I’ll get stuff and pay rent and all that. Um. Thanks.”

“No problem.” Riz starts to stand – sits back down. “You don’t have to talk, but uh, if you want to, I’m. Here.”

“Right.” Kristen’s smile is still tired, still faded, but it seems sincere. Riz thinks it’s sincere. He has a pretty high insight, but he also has notoriously poor rolls, so it’s probably best to let someone else figure it out. “Thanks, Riz.”

“Yeah, of course.” This time Riz actually stands, spine cracking dangerous loud as he stretches his back. “Fuck I’m tired. Alright. I’m going to bed.”

“You just drank coffee.”

“Sure did, mom.” Riz makes a face and Kristen snorts, undignified, very much like the high schooler Riz first befriended. He smiles and punches her on the shoulder. He is pretty sure that is a thing that friends do, punching each other on the shoulders. He thinks he saw it in a movie once. It seems right. “Wake me up if you need anything, alright?”

Kristen salutes as Riz sidles out the room. His chest throbs again as he collapses on the bed, the sound of the TV echoing slightly louder behind him as Kristen turns the volume back up. Dammit. He rubs over his scar again, wincing when it aches. That means bad dreams tonight. 

To say that Riz and Adaine live together is not technically accurate. To say that Riz, Gorgug, and Fig live together is also not technically accurate. As Elven Oracle, Adaine is obligated to spend a certain amount of the year in the capital of Fallinel, so her room is often empty for long stretches of time. Fig and Gorgug, mostly by Fig’s decision, live out of their little tour van, and definitely are not bumming alternatively off of their parents and their high school friends-slash-extended-family, so shut up. So while Adaine and Riz live together by technicality, for the most part Riz lives on a constant schedule of rotating roommates. Which is a list Kristen has now been added to. So.

Riz rolls over in bed. It’s a good system, he thinks, generally, and also right now while he is thinking about it, rolling the quilt between his fingers. He still lives close to his mom, sees his friends all the time. Everyone can get together for holidays under the premise of technically all being related to Fig somehow. Sometimes even Gilear drops by, with some knew woe betiding him. It’s good. Everyone he cares about in one place.

Everyone. All of them.

His scar throbs again and he gives in, reaching over to rummage in the bedside table for some pills Kristen had given him, right after she had brought him back from…right after she had brought him back (leaning overhead, worried, _it’s always scary the first time,_ she’d said, with the look of someone who’d put their head in death’s mouth and come out with one tooth less). They make him lightheaded and fuzzy and kind of dumb, but he needs the sleep more than he needs the lucidity. He pops a pill, dry, then stows them back into the dust for however many more months he can manage without them. Jut one good day of sleep will do him, he thinks. Just one. Then he’ll be fine. He will.

The medicine helps with sleep but it does not dull the pain, so when Riz finally drifts off he is still feeling the shudders vibrating across his ribcage, beat-beat-beat of a heart scarred and reformed, hammering too fast and too loud and too wrong.

It’s fine. It’s fine. It’s fine.

* * *

“Just take one night off, fucking gods,” Fiona says, when he tells her this verbatim, and then continues to repeat ‘It’s fine’ on loop without realizing it for a good minute straight.

Riz’s mouth shuts with a _click._ “You don’t understand,” he says. “It’s part of the aesthetic. Detectives gotta be sleep deprived. And in pain. And angsty. It’s the law.” 

“It is not.”

“It is.”

“We work at a police precinct.”

“And I rank higher than you, it’s the law, done.” Riz leans back in his chair. He’s got the dumb detective overcoat Fig had bought him for graduation, dramatic and high-collared and with just so many unnecessary pockets. In retrospect, he thinks she might have been making a joke, but Riz had worn it every day for the first year on the job. On nights like tonight, when his scar has only just stopped being a pain in the ass and he still feels woozy from meds, it is a good security blanket of professionalism to convince everyone at the precinct that he still totally, definitely has his shit together. “What time is it?”

“7:01,” Fiona says. “Since, you know, it’s been a minute. Since you last asked. At 7.”

“That’s how math works, yes, good job keeping up.” Riz glances at one of the new forms on his desk and promptly throws it into a drawer, where it will be a problem for Future Riz. Riz used to believe that his detective arch nemesis would be some smart coy criminal with wits and maybe like a little bit of sexual tension and a secret heart of gold. Unfortunately, Riz’s arch nemeses are instead, depending on circumstances, Past and Future Riz, whom he hates and who hate him with much more passion than heart of gold man ever could. “And when is the – fucking – guy getting here?”

“Codename Privateer.” Fiona snickers down at the fingernail she’s bitten down. “Soon. No official time.”

“Why don’t we ever have official times.”

“The gods hate us.”

“That isn’t my fault.”

“What?”

“There was a demigod who – never mind.” Riz collapses back, and then blinks when he realized that he’d leaned forward in the first place. “Any second?”

“Any second,” Fiona confirms, and they both look up sharply as movement – a car – passes outside the glass front door. Fiona brightens. “Speak of the devil?” she says hopefully.

“Gods, I hope it’s not a devil,” Riz mumbles. Fiona gives him another one of those trademark What Is Wrong With Elmville Looks. Riz finds that he is a little too out of it to care.

He’s not quite sure what he expects. The very limited number of pirates he knows wouldn’t come back to Elmville if Sol grabbed them by the scruffs of their necks and threw them, but this Privateer was still adventurous enough to have gone into piracy in the first place. Maybe that was why they’d sent them in Elmville’s direction – easiest place to reintegrate someone used to constant vigilance and excitement back into society. They’ve certainly hosted pirates before, Riz muses, watching the car doors open.

There is a flash of white hair. Riz’s heartbeat stops.

He is older. No eyepatch anymore, but a proper admiral coat now, sleeves pulled up to reveal arms full of scars, a few matching on his chin. His hair is still shaved at the sides, but the top is longer, pulled back in a roguish ponytail. High boots. A familiar rapier in a familiar scabbard, a hooked noise and a smile that Riz knows, knew, had been chasing, had been trying to forget.

It doesn’t make sense. At all. It isn’t possible.

But there – cuffed, getting dragged through the front door by Angela Worrel, eyes glued to the floor, ears a shade darker than the rest of him, like a kid found reading a book with bad words – there, there, older, Riz’s ears are ringing, his eyesight is a little fuzzy – there, looking up, catching eyes, sheepish, ashamed, something – Riz can’t breathe –

Fabian Seacaster, 26 years old, is standing in the Elmville police department for the first time in eight years. “Hey, the Ball,” Fabian says.

Riz throws up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title of chapter one from cleopatra, by the lumineers.
> 
> this fic is kind of my love letter to fantasy high! putting out feelers with chapter 1 to see what response will be like; update schedule will be decided based partially on my schedule and partially on interest, because i am a Monster in need of Constant Validation, and that's just how its gonna be lads. ultimate goal is to clean up fh's biggest loose ends, especially wrt character development, and also to be Gay, because I Am Gay And Do What I Want. actual scope will probably also depend on interest. but deep down in my heart of hearts everyone loves it and also me and i get to write All Of It, win/win. there will be more ships & characters, but i'm reserving tagging until i know how big exactly this fic'll end up so i don't overtag!
> 
> find me on tumblr @riz-gukgak


	2. Iscariot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adaine has a vision. Kristen gets a housecall. Fabian's story starts to get shared.

Adaine has had this vision before.

It is twofold, the vision – like in a dream, when you are in two places at once, and you aren’t quite sure when you’ve woken up how your brain made that work. Adaine is standing on the teetering splinters of a ship near storm. Adaine is also standing over Riz Gukgak’s dead body.

The Adaine on the ship has a gun – Riz’s gun, she knows without knowing how, the old one he gave her when she started her unofficial work with the police department – but she is not using it. There is movement, across shadow, and she blindly throws a ray of sickness at it – hits. A low yowl of pain. The sounds of other people fighting, swords against swords, blood against blood. The figure stumbles out of the shadows, knees shaking as she collapses to them.

The Adaine with the dead Riz is not doing anything. Sitting. Watching. Fabian – older, different, but still recognizable – is clinging to the body, ripping down the front of the shirt to expose the long, re-opened gash. His hands are trembling. When he looks at Adaine – he looks scared.

It is not unusual, in visions, for Adaine to receive some metaphysical narration. A direction.

_Forgive,_ the voice whispers this time. _Everything is not what it seems. Forgive. _

The Adaine with the body takes Fabian’s hand. The Adaine on the ship points the gun at her sister’s head.

* * *

Adaine Abernant has mixed feelings on the country of Fallinel.

In fairness, Adaine lives a fairly unorthodox lifestyle for someone in her position. She’s only even around six months out of a year, or in event of a state emergency; the other half, she serves as an Elvish ambassador to Solace, a job whose duties she completely ignores in favor of wacky detective shenanigans with her roommate Riz. And all of _that_ is only ever second in priority to her work at Darkmouth University, where she takes classes over the Ether. This is all unheard of from The Elvish Oracle, which is a position that is usually full time and nonstop in an abandoned wizard’s tower along the northern coast.

Which is terrible. It would be just. So boring. Adaine would lose her mind. And her boss is constantly pushing her to at least spend a few weeks there out of the year, just to try it out, maybe make it a vacation home.

So that sucks. Her job, actually, overall, sucks. Upon reluctantly contacting Fallinel for training when she turned eighteen, Adaine quickly learned that her visions, to a certain extent, are focused around her current location. That’s all well and good in Fallinel, where something exciting happens once a year or so, but it is much more necessary in Elmville, where Adaine foresaw a beholder, a demigod seeking to overthrow heaven, and three demonic cults in her sophomore year of high school alone. It’s poor allocations of resources, frankly, and every second spent in Fallinel comes with the impatient nerves of knowing she could be more useful elsewhere.

So strike one. And strike two – Fallinel, or at least the parts of Fallinel that Adaine must peruse for half of each year, is. Rich. And pompous. And takes ages to decide on any given course of action, and pretty xenophobic, and full of beautiful people who know they’re beautiful and will live longer than you and spend their days eating dried figs they picked a thousand years ago that they have left to age in a magic cooler. It’s so fucking _Elven._

But despite all of this, there are still parts of Fallinel that Adaine really likes. She likes the coastline, the many harbors, the smell of the sea that follows no matter how far inland you travel. She likes the complicated swerve of the houses – much older than anything in Solace, quaint, but with a certain practicality to their creation that tells Adaine more about the people that built them than a book ever could. She likes days like today, when there’s no obligations at the court and she can sit on the patio of a brewery owned by a sweet local couple, letting the sounds of people being people wash over her in the midst of a job where people prefer to act like Elves.

“You’re late,” she says without looking up from her crystal when someone drops their bag on the table. She takes a sip of her beer, sends off a quick text to Fig – _It looks great! Is this the final album art or just a draft?_ – and then sets her crystal down face-first on the table, fixing her new companion with a critical gaze.

“What?” Averick says.

“You’re late.”

“You didn’t give me a time.”

Adaine frowns. “Yes, I did.”

“No, you – “ Averick rubs the bridge of his nose. “You said ‘afternoon.’ It can’t be more than 11.”

“Later than 11,” Adaine corrects automatically, ignoring Averick’s blank stare. She pushes a cup across the table at him. “I ordered for you. Hope you don’t mind.”

Averick squints at her for a moment long moment. Then he sighs and takes it. “Tell me this ain’t some watered-down Elvish original shit.”

“Dwarvish origin,” Adaine promises, physically restraining herself from correcting his grammar. Averick’s eyes have a sly grin in them when he takes a drink. She wrinkles her nose at him.

Averick is the part of Fallinel Adaine likes most. Well – usually. He can be pretty hit or miss. For one thing, he stands out like a human in a room full of halflings. He’s drow, skin obsidian black and hair pale silver, pulled into a complicated version of the traditional Elvish braid that he calls cornrows. No matter how hard he tries to mimic the condescending upper-class voices and accents of the court, his twang always fights its way through his voice.

Like Adaine, Averick holds one of the three supernaturally hereditary positions of Fallinel’s high court, his being the Chosen of the Elvish God. Also like Adaine, Averick did not live a life of pious training before the unwilling appointment. Adaine was 21 when she had Seen him. This prompted a short, wacky adventure wherein she, Kristen, and Gorgug had to seek out the refugees he lived with at the edge of the Red Wastes, find him before the Nightmare King (the second one, not Cassandra), explain why he was suddenly hearing voices from old Elvish dudes, and get him to come back to Fallinel with them. There was a mindflayer. It was a good time.

“This is not a date,” Adaine starts with, because it seems a good thing to get out of the way.

Averick snorts into his drink. “Oh, good,” he says. “I was worried. Because, you know – “

“I’m just saying,” Adaine stresses, “that if we’re going to do this – “

“ – you call a boy up and ask if he wants to go alone with you to your favorite bar – “

“ – I want to be clear from now on, so that we don’t have any more misunderstandings – “

“ – and show up dressed to the dang nines and with his favorite drink already bought, he’s gonna get ideas, Adaine.” That glimmer of smile is still in his eye, wry, teasing.

“I am not dressed up,” Adaine says.

“You’re wearing a skirt.”

“I wear skirts all the time.”

“Not to meetings.”

Adaine huffs. “Well, of course I I don’t dress for _meetings._ The traditional regalia hasn’t been adjusted for the last five hundred years. And – what’ll they do, fire me for wearing sweatpants?”

Averick sets his chin in his palm, grin lopsided. “But you’ll dress up for not-dates.”

“Look,” Adaine says, “you’re the one who thought it was a date, this was for your benefit.”

Averick’s expression is distinctly unimpressed. “Oh, yes,” he deadpans. “What a fool was I for thinking that a pretty girl I’ve liked for years asking me to come to a wedding and sharing a bed was supposed to be romantic. Truly, I am in the wrong.”

Adaine feels her face flush. _“Averick,”_ she hisses.

“Adaine,” Averick shoots back, but his expression goes soft and a little slack when she puts a hand to her face. “Adaine,” he says again, kinder this time, “I’m just giving you shit to lighten the mood. It’s okay. I’m not blaming you or anything. It’s just very funny in retrospect.”

Adaine lets her hand drop, and when she makes herself meet his gaze he is smiling, still, light and tender. “…are you angry at me?” she says.

“No,” he says. “I’m sorry I pushed it. I should’ve realized it would bother you.”

“It’s okay.” She shakes her head. “It is a little funny.”

“Okay, you don’t get to laugh at me getting rejected,” Averick says, and a chuckle forces its way out of Adaine’s throat despite herself. Averick – satisfied – leans back, taking another sip from his drink. “So, my good platonic friend. This is not a date.”

“This is not a date,” Adaine agrees, smiling this time. “I had a vision.”

Averick sits back in this chair as he processes this, slender fingers rapping against the table. “About the Speaker of the Undying Court?” he guesses, forehead creased in thought.

Adaine is already shaking her head. “I would’ve told Varellion about that. It was about…” she hesitates. “I think it was about. Aelwen.”

Something flickers across Averick’s face. “Ah.” He takes a sip of his beer. He doesn’t immediately spit it out, so Adaine assumes it’s strong enough for him. “The Sea Witch.”

“Yes,” Adaine says, voice stiff. She does not like using the titles Fabian and Aelwen have earned at court. With Aelwen, it lends her a certain amount of credence that Adaine doesn’t think she deserves, and with Fabian…well, he’s Fabian. No matter how pirate-y and morally uncertain he is, she still watched him chug three cans of Mountain Dew for 'the gamer cred' once. It's hard to think of anyone as an intimidating criminal after that.

“Do you wanna share this vision with the class?” Averick says.

“Not particularly.” Adaine imagines they must look strange to passerby, her ramrod straight and proper and him slouched and smiling. It is a fight to remind herself she doesn’t care. “I suppose I wanted to ask if there were any updates. It seemed…curious.”

Averick puffs out a cheek – a funny little tic for thinking that Adaine always finds a little funny. “There’s actually been a couple,” he says. “Visions didn’t steer you wrong. But I’m getting a sense you’re looking for something in particular.”

Gods, he always makes her come out and say it. “You know what I want to know.”

“Gonna have to be a little more specific.”

She grits her teeth. Hit or miss, Averick. “Are there any updates on her partnership with Fabian?”

“Ah. “ Averick’s smile is smug. Adaine hates when Averick gets smug. “Just so happens, yeah.”

Adaine blows out her breath as he leans over to pull his bag open. He slaps a folder – simple, manilla, and lightly filled – onto the table.

It’s not Averick’s fault, per se. The fact that Aelwen and Adaine are siblings is…not something that she advertises. It’s not something that comes up in conversation. The high school friendship with Fabian thing – that’s been a little harder to avoid. So it’s not an illogical extension, that she’s hung up on the pirate duo that’s been shaking up the Celestine Seas because she’s hung up on Fabian somehow. It’s not even all the way wrong, if you get down to it. They were friends. She misses him.

Hit or miss. Hit or miss, with Averick. Because it is very annoying that he makes assumptions off this, but when she opens the folder to find a full profile of Fabian himself, she can let it slide.

“Someone swiped this from the cops in Bastion City,” he says, as Adaine eagerly scans the page. Fabian Aramais Seacaster. 26 years old. Half-elf. Wanted: Dead or Alive. Last Seen: Hangman III. He looks – well, he looks like he did in her vision, but in real life it is so much more crystalline, more vivid. He’s had the eye magically regrown again, since the team they’d sent to capture him last time had taken it.

“They caught him?” Adaine says, voice tinged up as she traces the image with her eyes. Getting caught doesn’t sound like Fabian.

“He turned himself in.” She looks up so fast her hair whips in her face, and he gestures back to the folder. “Second page. Sea Witch pulled a coup, or something like it. He’s trading information on her for amnesty.”

“That’s – “ An incredible lead. A big risk. A step in a direction that she isn’t sure is backwards or forwards. She swallows. “Can we get him here? For – to talk to him? Do we have transfer authority?”

“No, but it’s not going to matter for you. He’s already getting transferred to the precinct in charge of the Aelwen case.” Adaine sucks in a breath. Averick smiles.

“He’s headed to Elmville,” she says, voice carefully flat.

Averick sips his beer, satisfied, across from her. Adaine sits and processes. Fabian – is going back to Elmville. To meet the person in charge of his case. Riz is the person in charge of Fabian’s case, for so may reasons, and Fabian has – has something like diplomatic immunity now, and Fabian is going to Elmville.

_Forgive. Everything is not what it seems. Forgive._

“I have a favor to ask,” Adaine says. “I am going to need you to cover for me.”

* * *

When Adaine appears in her apartment – a pain, it had been, installing a permanent teleportation circle in her room, and it takes her only fifth level spell slot to use it, but well worth it to avoid dying in some embarrassing travel accident after she was so critical of her predecessors – Kristen is standing in the kitchen.

It’s a strange sight. Not just because it’s been a few months, and Kristen has dyed her hair in streaks in that time, brilliant blue-green glittering in the soft kitchen fluorescence. And not just because Kristen is in Adaine's apartment alone, which is a little weird. Kristen is – not crying, but close, face screwed up. A lightbulb in one hand. And making some motions – motions Adaine recognizes as arcane, as spell components, but she can’t feel anything in the air.

“Kristen?” Adaine says, trepidatious soft. Kristen doesn’t respond. Adaine clears her throat, a little louder. “Babygirl?”

Kristen startles, fumbling with the lightbulb until it smashes on the floor. “Oh – shit.” She leans down to pick up the shards, yelps again, pulls away with blood on her finger, waving against the air.

“Hey – hey, it’s alright!” Adaine rushes over and waves a hand to mend the lightbulb, reconstituting instantly. “I’m sorry, I should’ve, um – “

“It’s fine, I should’ve been paying attention, just – you surprised me – “

“I tried to say something, but – are you okay?”

“I’m fine!” Kristen laughs, waving her off, and picks the reformed lightbulb up to set on the counter. “Just me being clumsy.”

“That good old dex score,” Adaine says, smiling.

“Negative three, baby,” Kristen grins, flipping to lean against the counter. She’s – she looks good, of course, because Kristen has always been good-looking in that children’s book way, where people who do good come to look kind. But – tired. Smiling, eyes roving Adaine to take in the differences the same as Adaine is doing with her, but tired smiling.

“I didn’t expect you to be in here,” Adaine says.

“Oh – uh. I’m having. Some.” Kristen gestures to her crystal, on the table. Briefly, and without knowing why, it clocks with Adaine that Kristen hasn’t healed the cut in her finger. “Trouble. With.” Kristen sighs. “Tracker and I are in the middle of something, so Riz said I could stay here.”

“Oh.” Adaine fumbles for the correct response. “I’m…sorry.”

“It’s cool.” Kristen puts out a hand, hovering, over Adaine’s arm. When Adaine nods consent, Kristen claps her shoulder. “Riz is at work right now. Said something about a prisoner transfer, and he’d be busy. But he should be back in the morning. I don’t – “

“We have to go there,” Adaine says immediately.

Kristen blinks. “I’m sorry?”

“The precinct.” It takes a moment of searching for Adaine to find the keyring she leaves here – she keeps an annoyingly flashy and high class electric car that Fallinel left with her, as a constant reminder of her allegiance. Normally, it just takes up space; right now, she’s glad to have it. “Riz is going to need us. For moral support.”

“What?” Kristen pushes off the counter, following Adaine to the hallway of the apartment building. “Wh – moral support?”

“You said the prisoner is being transferred tonight?” Adaine says.

“Yeah.”

Adaine pulls the copies of Averick’s files and hands them back to Kristen. “That’s the prisoner,” she says, and is a little proud of herself for the dramatic affect.

Kristen opens the file the moment they make it to the car – and gasps. “No way,” she says.

“Yes.”

“It’s Fabian?”

“Yes.”

“But – “

“I know.” Adaine turns the keys. “Read the rest.”

The drive to the Elmville Police Department is silent – the first half, as Kristen absorbs what’s in front of her, and the second half, as she types furiously into her crystal, presumably to try to contact Riz. Adaine doesn’t really know. She is focused on the road – an anxious pit in her stomach, nerves, worry, hope, many things.

They pull in at half past 10, and Adaine distinctly recognizes Angela Worrel’s car, so they’re – late, on that count. It is quick, for Adaine to hurry in, Kristen hot on her heels, pushing open the glass doors of the front.

“ – _any_ information on the prisoner, then maybe you’d have a leg to stand on here, but unfortunately, Angela, you didn’t, so – “

“Paperwork was sent. If it did not make it to its destination, I have nothing to do with that.” Angela Worrel looks up from her argument with the very short, very seething captain of the precinct, Sklonda Gukgak-Insatiable. “Ms. Abernant,” Worrel says, one eyebrow arched. “And how did you know to come here?”

“Hello, Angela,” Adaine says, because she is too used to a job pretending to be nice to people to put much effort into it, and pushes straight past the two of them to Riz’s office. Kristen stops behind her – to smooth things over, and to share the contents of the folder, Adaine presumes, and to do her Kristen thing where everyone in a room miraculously learns to care for each other. Adaine isn’t particularly bothered by it right now.

“Riz,” she says, when she bursts into the room.

Riz is sitting behind his desk, staring, blank into a cup of coffee, undrunk. Next to him – she must be new, Adaine doesn’t recognize her; a half-elf, burly, a holy symbol that Adaine doesn’t recognize etched into an earring, brown hair cropped, uniform tight. Riz does not look up. “Adaine,” he says, voice muted surprise.

“I had a vision,” Adaine says, hurrying around. The half-elf quickly recedes at Adaine’s gestures, fumbling awkwardly to watch as Adaine bends down next to Riz’s seat, taking his hand in hers.

“Fucking figures,” Riz mumbles. “Too late to actually tell me, right?”

“As inconvenient as possible.”

Riz’s laugh is clipped. There is a moment of quiet. “Fabian’s here,” he says, whispers, murmurs.

“I know,” Adaine says, squeezing his hand.

“He’s got immunity. Can’t be prosecuted for any crimes before now.”

“I know.”

“I have to talk to him for information.”

Adaine squeezes his hand again. The silence is not comforting.

Riz’s eyes focus for a brief second. “Oh,” he says, belatedly, “this is Fiona. She’s new.”

“Hi.” Fiona waves. “I’m new.”

“Hello, Fiona,” Adaine says, and smiles tight against her own face. “My name is Adaine Abernant. I have a position in the Court of Fallinel, but I work for the precinct in an unofficial capacity when I’m not otherwise engaged.”

“She’s magic,” Riz says.

“Cool,” Fiona says – and then, nervously, stepping forward, “um, I feel like I’m missing out on something here with the prisoner. Not to, like, pry, but, uh…” She gestures to Riz’s unmoving stare. “Are you gonna be, like, okay?”

Adaine looks at Riz. When Riz nods his assent, she stands, brushing off her knees. “Fabian Aramais Seacaster,” she says, voice deliberately even, “was a friend of ours. When we attended Aguefort. We were part of an adventuring party together. He left us in a very abrupt manner, not – not necessarily by his own intention, but abrupt nonetheless.”

“Okaaay,” Fiona says, question mark on her voice.

Adaine looks at Riz. He nods.

_Not everything is what it seems._

_Forgive._

“Fabian is also,” Adaine says, “the primary suspect of Riz’s murder.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from the song iscariot by walk the moon. still figuring out an update schedule and stuff. feel free to throw onto tumblr @riz-gukgak for updates. thank you so much for the comments; y'all are crazy responsive, and it is such a joy & honor to read. :')


	3. Boat Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fabian learns how much things have changed since he left. Riz pushes a hard call. Adaine puts some faith in her friends.

At the deathbed of senior year, Riz Gukgak tapped a finger on his chin and said, “We could fight it out.” 

“Too easy a win for me.” Fabian – 20, young, dumb, resplendent – did not open his eyes where he lay, shirt clinging wet in the back from the morning dew. “We could race.” 

“You have a magic demon motorcycle.” 

“Irrelevant.” 

Fabian didn’t need to open his eyes to know that Riz was making a face at him. It was Riz’s idea to meet here – Riz's stupid message with eighteen ciphers that had amounted to a time, a location, and an encoded smiley face. Fabian wouldn’t have come to school on a weekend for anyone else. “It would not be an easy win for you,” Riz said, instead of pressing the motorcycle issue, and Fabian could hear him shifting, cross-legged, pulling up grass in tight fists of thought. 

Riz was not Fabian’s best friend. Fabian – speaking objectively, not in a mean way – Fabian was out of Riz’s league. But after four years of saying that only to massacre anyone who looked at Riz wrong, Fabian was kind of running out of steam on keeping up this particular part of his image. Fabian and Riz’s not-friendship was so much of an open secret, Gorgug regularly had to be stopped from accidentally spreading gossip about them. Fabian was – not quite willing to concede on best friends. But if he were gun-to-his-head pressed, he might be willing to admit that he didn’t loathe Riz entirely. 

“Yes, it would,” Fabian said, instead of addressing any of that. There were other things to do today, and Riz was lax and bouncing where he was sitting, finally in an actual t-shirt and jeans instead of one of his stupid suits, and Fabian wanted to keep this moment a little longer. “You’re about being sneaky. Useless in a one-on-one fight.” 

“Not with insightful fighting, bitch.” 

“Yeah, excited to watch you waste five turns failing those rolls while I fuckin’ cream you.” 

“Also - “ Riz’s voice pitched up, the way it did when he felt he had a Very Good Point “ - also, street racing is illegal, and when we become cool investigators associated with the law - “ 

“ - when we’re _pirates_ that do whatever the fuck we want, street racing is gonna be, like, pretty small fry.” Fabian finally cracked one eye open to look up at Riz, who had leaned far enough in that his face was hovering over Fabian’s, close enough that if Fabian moved a little to the right his head would be in Riz’s lap. “Also, if street racing is illegal, street fighting is definitely illegal.” 

This was the crux of the matter: Riz Gukgak’s legacy, both dead father and living mother, was beholden to serving the people and punishing criminals. Fabian Seacaster’s legacy, both dead father and living mother, was beholden to doing adventures and being criminals. For the most part, these perpendicular life paths were easy to avoid thinking about, as they were low on the list of many life-threatening events that occurred regularly at Aguefort Academy. But graduation was coming up. And with graduation coming up, that meant choosing life paths was coming. And with choosing life paths coming up. Well. You can’t just be a cop and also be a pirate, Riz had pointed out, and much as Fabian loathed giving Riz any leeway, he was kind of right. 

It was hard to think about. Mostly, Fabian had figured that some big compromise would work itself out from external forces – they'd be hired, or something, or Adaine would have a vision they all had to engage Right Now, or Kristen would get some big calling and they’d all stumble along with her. Like, you know, an adventuring party. But no such force seemed forthcoming. Fig and Gorgug were in negotiations for a new manager. Adaine was finally travelling, briefly, to Fallinel for talks. Kristen was headed to Darkmouth. 

And that left Fabian and Riz, the last of the Bad Kids, still seeking their adventures. 

Fabian could see a certain appeal to Riz’s side; staying in Elmville, at least for a while, would be good training, and learning to be a secret agent would be cool, and if he stayed home the whole team could meet up on the regular. But he also had a much larger appeal on his side, which was that being a pirate was way cooler, and he had put in years of training to save Aelwen Abernant Love Of His Life that would be wasted if he stayed, and when the team got together they could do it on a pirate ship. Pretty equal stances. And reason – well, maybe reason was Riz’s preferred method of solving problems, but reason wasn’t how they wanted to solve _this_ problem. 

So. How to decide. 

“We could play checkers,” Fabian said, closing his eyes again and snuggling into Riz’s knee. 

“Boring,” Riz said. “Fight. Fight. Fight.” 

“We’re not fighting.” 

“’Cause you’re scaared,” Riz said, and Fabian looked up to glare only to find Riz’s shit-eating grin on full display. “Come on. It’s like...poetic. Brothers on the battlefield. Friends turned foes to become friends again.” 

“Stop it,” Fabian said, because Fabian loved dramatics and Riz was convincing him. 

“We’re fighting for honor. We’re fighting for the future.” 

_“Stop it.”_ Fabian sat up, slowly so that Riz had time to pull his face from the danger zone, leaning back on his elbows. “Why are you so stuck on making it a fight? You have the disadvantage.” 

“I took an extracurricular,” Riz said, ears twitching – an unconscious motion, when he was particularly happy about something. Fabian had never pointed it out to him. He was worried if he did, Riz would try to make himself stop doing it, and it was kinda cute, in a weird goblin way. “I have a level in another class.” 

Fabian mocked a gasp. “Multiclassing?” he said, batting his eyelashes. “Oh, the Ball, you’re so cool and handsome and talented, tell me more.” 

“Shut up,” Riz laughed, shoving at Fabian’s shoulders, his nose speckling darker turquoise as he blushed. “It’s a martial class. I want to try it out! And this is, like – a safe place. I’m not gonna really die for real if I suck at it.” 

“And you want to test it in a life-changing battle to the ultimate fate of piracy?” Fabian quirked an eyebrow. 

“I want to lord it out over you that I can beat you up, nerd,” Riz said. 

Fabian watched Riz’s face – wide, hopeful, open – and finally, with a disgusted sigh, grabbed at the sheath of his rapier. This was the problem, Fabian thought, as Riz let out a whoop and rolled to a stand, sliding his shadow blade off his back. Fabian could never deny Riz anything. 

“Nonlethal,” Fabian said, legs shifting – _lower your center of gravity, maximize movement available to you, feet further apart, watch on your blind side._ “Obviously. No sense wasting any healing on this.” 

Riz grinned, and his teeth were sharp, dangerous. “Scared?” 

“Just roll your initiative, asshole,” Fabian snorted, and then Riz charged. 

Riz, for once, got the higher roll, which as usual was subsequently followed by nothing but shit rolls as he slashed out at Fabian, searching out his insightful fighting. Fabian got a round in – two attacks, only one of which hit – before Riz managed to clock his weaknesses, slashing down at Fabian’s kneecap; Fabian danced out of the way, managed a swing at Riz’s back that knocked the wind out of him, a blunt crack to the head with his pommel. And then Riz finally got a hit in with insightful fighting, knocked the breath from Fabian’s chest with a quick slice, and with his offhand - 

“You took a level in monk!” Fabian lit up, keeling backwards to avoid Riz’s bonus-action fist in his face. 

Riz grinned, twirling his blade fancy in his hand. He looked adrenaline-crazed, excited – the same as Fabian felt. “Dex-based melee, motherfucker,” he said, before blade hit blade once more. 

There was no time to discuss further; the extra attack added another chance for Riz to roll something decent, and Fabian really had to focus if he didn’t want to face a life of becoming The Man. Parry, block, two attacks, parry, block, two attacks, second wind, parry, block, two attacks – like most one-on-one combats, quick to fall into the simplicity, attack action-their turn-attack action, without wasting time on fancy maneuvers. 

Action surge was what it came down to, in the end; health for health, cut for cut, Fabian on his last legs looked up and saw Riz swaying to stay up, pushed himself just that little but further and – _NATURAL 20, BABY._ (Still nonlethal. Right? Still nonlethal. Okay cool HELL YEAH NATURAL 20.) 

“FUCK yeah,” Fabian yelled, and then scrambled to catch Riz’s body as it crumpled unceremoniously onto the ground. He deposited Riz, gently, and then let out another shout of victory, running a quick circle, letting out excited jolts. “I’m FABIAN SEACASTER and I am GREAT!” 

It did occur to Fabian very quickly that if he kept yelling someone would come see what all the fuss was about and he would feel very stupid, so he made himself quiet down, but the adrenaline of victory was still hitting him, and he had an hour until Riz woke up anyway because Fabian didn’t have any fucking healing and wow they had not thought this through huh, so he kept skipping in circles, flourishing his blade dramatically. God this was gonna be so cool. He could dress as a real pirate captain, probably with a cool hat. Maybe they could get, like, a parrot. Riz dressed up in something really fucking stupid – like, like Smee from Peter Pan, just absolute cowardly first mate dumb shit, he would hate it. Swordfights atop the gunnel of the ship. Sending traitors off a plank. GOD Fabian wanted to make someone walk a plank, just fucking once, in his entire life. Walking the plank was SO cool. 

He could see stopping at port towns, getting like, probably 15 girls or whatever every night. Then getting Aelwen and having to turn all those girls down. He could see Kristen and Riz daring each other to climb the hawk’s nest - 

Wait. Kristen wouldn’t be there. That wouldn’t happen. 

His steps slowed. Scenes, in his head, shifted – from Fig making a fake peg leg to Riz regaling Fig over the phone, his hands waving, kicking the side of the ship when the service doesn’t work. He could see Adaine, watching, distraught, from the coast of Fallinel, as they escorted her sister away, Riz trying to explain himself, leaving her behind. He saw – in the corner of the bar with the fifteen girls – Riz, hiding himself away in the corner, in the shadows, looking longingly out the window, over the sea towards Elmville. 

Fabian – Fabian wasn’t. Best friends. Fabian didn’t need best friends. He wanted adventure and excitement and glory and heroism. And maybe Riz wanted that, but he also wanted – both. He wanted to call his mom every day. He wanted to help people. 

Riz would be an excellent pirate, sneaky, severe, cutthroat, chaotic. And Riz would be miserable. 

Fabian – hesitated. Looked at Riz, unconscious, peaceful on the grass.

And he made a decision. 

It was a slow process, pulling Riz up to the edge of the bleachers, setting him up against it. Just in case – just a stupid, stupid last-minute measure, he couldn’t have possibly done lethal damage, he was so careful – just in case, he propped Riz up and rested a hand on his neck. His breath billowed out when he felt the pulse, _beat-beat-beat-beat,_ and knew Riz was – Riz would be okay. Riz would get it, when he woke up alone here, with Fabian gone. Maybe he would chase after, and they would be cool detective-and-pirate nemeses. That would be on par for them. Appropriately dramatic exit, double appropriately dramatic chase. 

He crouched there, thumb on Riz’s pulse, watching. He should’ve moved. He did not. 

( - and there’s a moment where the world leans in and whispers to him, _you could be happy here,_ and a piece of himself he’d portioned off ages ago reconnects, just briefly, with the whole, and he can see a world where Riz wins just as clearly as he can see himself pirate. Going to college, rooming with Riz, or Gorgug, maybe – study sessions, and bloodrush games, and lying back-to-back on Riz’s bed with three separate fans humming electric to substitute for AC, complaining about finals, complaining to complain – weddings, Gorgug’s, maybe, winking at Fig when she goes bridesmaidzilla – working at the school, a teacher, or a coach, or maybe not at the school at all; a detective, wild vigilante justice partnership, or as Adaine’s companion across the sea in Fallinel, coming back to visit - 

he can see road trips, and break ups, and video game nights, and making stupid bets and getting into magic shit and getting drunk and stumbling home, laughing, on Kristen’s shoulder, Adaine lighting up when he enables her bad fashion, and he sees Riz. He sees Riz. Coming home late. Pinning red string to a board. Reading the paper. Playing with kids. Giving Fabian shit. He sees Riz, so vivid and real and right, Fabian’s best man when he marries some faceless figure, Fabian as his best man when he marries some faceless figure, and they’d live in the same house and have wild adventures. Fabian would insist, he certainly certainly certainly isn’t Riz’s best friend but they would both know, without saying. He sees Riz so harsh and wrenching that he has to physically restrain himself from pulling his hand up, brushing real-Riz's hair behind his ear, finding the future in his face. 

_You could be happy,_ the world whispers to him, yearning, and for a moment his whole chest aches nostalgia with no era, just open and bleeding and raw. 

Happiness is not the goal.) 

He dropped his hand. He – he texted Adaine first, briefly, _Riz is next to the Bloodrush field,_ because some stupid little niggling piece of him wouldn’t let it go – and then he threw his phone away, in the trash can next to the cafeteria, wandering the grounds in silent, thoughtful march, one last time. 

Fabian took a deep breath. He made himself grin. Then he opened the doors of Aguefort Adventuring Academy, and walked out towards the sea.

* * *

Six years later – that is to say, now, in the present – Fabian Aramais Seacaster is man enough to admit that he may have made a mistake in coming back. 

Not that it’s bad – not entirely. Seeing Riz, all unshaven and investigative and like kind of hot if Fabian is being really honest with himself, was. Not bad. Not good, per se, especially not for Riz, who looked fairly green in the face (ha) when Fabian was marched past the front desk. But not – not bad, either. 

Weird. It was – is – weird, in the way that Fabian imagines it is always weird to see high school friends after years without contact. Riz could like...be married now, and Fabian wouldn’t know. He might have kids. 

But it’s not bad, necessarily, much as there’s a nagging guilt. Should’ve called when he was in Solace finding a high-level cleric to Regenerate his eye (again). Or in one of his demon deals, he could’ve asked them to drop Gorthalax a line, opened communication. Pushed Aelwen a little harder to try to make sisterly amends – not that it would’ve gotten him anywhere, but he’d feel better now. Despite all those missed opportunities, to actually be back, after so long, with the knowledge that his former life is officially, legally behind him. It’s. Not bad. Not bad, is what it is. 

It is also, more pressingly, fucking _boring._ Fabian doesn’t have much to do except mull over and regret, chained to the table in an empty interrogation room, one of those two-way mirrors glaring his visage back at him. I mean, he’s not like, chained well, because this is the Elmville Police Department, but he’s trying to be a good willing hostage. You’d think they would at least leave him with a picture book or something. Jail sucks. Coming back was a mistake, because jail _sucks._

It stops sucking when the door opens. Fabian looks up, sharp, and his breath catches at Riz – shaken, pale, and older, but still Riz Gukgak, big ears and dumb freckles and sharp teeth and all – pushes in. Just behind him - 

“Oh, shit, hi Adaine,” Fabian blurts out. She pauses in her half-step, fixing him with a classic Adaine Look that makes him equally nostalgic and cowed. Like Riz, she’s aged in that way that everyone does, where it is impossible to put a conscious finger on. Unlike Riz, for the most part, Adaine has not changed much from the last time Fabian saw her. Her hair is a little longer – just past the shoulder, now – and she must be curling it or treating it or something, because it has these messy waves that Adaine in senior year could not have possibly managed. She’s not dressed up for a normal person but she’s dressed up for Adaine, who came to school every day in junior year in one of three pairs of pajama pants because she couldn’t be assed to change. “I, uh, expected you to be. In Fallinel.” 

“I was.” Adaine pushes the door closed behind her with a sharp _click_ that matches the screeching of chairs Riz pulls up. “I came over.” 

“Huh.” Fabian grins, though he doesn’t feel it, because Adaine is stiff and Fabian knows how to push. “I’m honored.” 

Adaine ignores him, walking over to set a black boxy thing next to him – a recorder, Fabian processes, after a moment of remembering that technology is A Thing and now he’s not on a pirate ship he’ll have to get used to it again. The chair does not screech when she pulls it back. Adaine’s gotten more graceful, flouncing into her chair – or at least, she’s gotten better at hiding the nerves. 

In retrospect, Fabian. Probably should’ve seen this coming. His mental reunion, where he came back and Riz, like, leaped into his arms, and everybody piled a group hug, and they were all so excited to see him that they would ignore the part where he left and didn’t contact them for several years straight, was maybe, just a little bit, rooted in wishful thinking. A stretch. Riz won’t - Riz isn’t even looking him in the eye, the room is completely silent, so that is not boding super well for the reunion barbecue Fabian-tells-pirate-stories sleepover he was distantly hoping for. 

There is another _click_ when Riz turns on the recorder, a brief brake in silence as Adaine pulls out a notebook and sets it on the table.  
“Mr. Seacaster,” Riz says, still not looking up - 

_“Mr. Seacaster?”_ Fabian blurts out, because okay, a little harsh - 

_“- Mr. Seacaster,”_ Riz says, with slightly more emphasis, “you have a right to ask for an attorney present for any discussion within these walls. You have been legally exempted from any punishment for any crimes committed before the date of one week ago, when you were given amnesty by Bastion City, but you are still within your rights to have a lawyer present if you wish.” 

Fabian has heard this voice from Riz before – the cold, practical calculation, the voice Riz used after he shot an unconscious man point-blank in the skull, the voice Riz used as he was shooting off Biz’s fingers, one by one, to make him talk. It’s a part of Riz that Fabian has chosen not to think about, most of the last few years, reminiscing on his high school days and what his friends are doing now. It is a part of Riz that Fabian isn’t sure how to feel about. 

“Would you like a lawyer?” Riz prompts, after a moment of stunned silence, voice still clean and unemotional. 

“Uh,” Fabian says, physically pushed back in his chair by the waves of Don’t Fuck With Me coming off of both his old friends right now. “Nah, I’m good. Are you guys like...” Fabian squints. “You remember me, right?” 

“Vividly,” Riz says. 

“You can still call me Fabian, you know.” 

There is a moment of quiet. 

Riz hits the button on the recorder. “Are we really going to do this?” he says, and he finally looks up, his eyes fierce and a little afraid of something. 

“Yeah, I mean, if you guys are gonna make it weird - “ 

“Oh, sorry, we’re making it _weird_ for you, let me sing you a fucking lullaby, boo hoo your life is so sad - “ 

“ - don’t want to be around me, you can just pass the case on to some other asshole, if seeing me is such a fuckin’ pain, didn’t realize I was making your life so hard by leaving behind everything I do and love to further _your_ fucking case - “ 

“That is enough,” Adaine says, and Fabian and Riz shut up, because Adaine, Fabian notes with a bit of pride, has taken all of that fear she once had and pushed it right out the other direction into becoming scary. 

Adaine is – looking at him, squinting, in this way that is not quite critical but not friendly, like he is an ancient form of writing that she is trying to translate. He meets her gaze – then doesn’t, because like, okay, fair point, they have a right to be mad at him, he should’ve called - 

Adaine and Riz share a look, and then Adaine leans forward and presses the record button. “Fabian,” she says, and her voice is some weird mix of hard and not. “Did you kill Riz?” 

...what? 

“What?” Fabian says, staring, because, uh, what? 

“Answer the question,” Adaine says. On the other side, Fabian can see Riz’s knuckles paling, shaking where they cling to the table. 

“WHAT?” Fabian says, because, _UH, WHAT?_

“When you left,” Adaine pushes, leaning forward, searching his face, “You and Riz fought. It was supposed to be nonlethal. Is that correct?” 

“You _DIED?”_ Fabian says, staring at Riz, who huddles up a little more. 

“Focus,” Adaine says. “You fought Riz. It was supposed to be nonlethal. You texted me, and when I got there, he was - “ Adaine looks at Riz, quick, gauging something - “It was lucky I was with Kristen, and she had diamonds on her. You disappeared without a trace. Did you kill him?” 

“No!” Fabian says, staring at Riz. “I would never – why didn’t you ask me - ?” 

“Because you _threw away your phone and left the country for six years,”_ Adaine snaps, and maybe Fabian should be affronted but his head is spinning right now. Riz died? Who killed Riz? Why? Were they trying to frame Fabian, or was it a coincidence? Is Riz okay? 

_Obviously not,_ he thinks, looking across the table where Riz is staring down at his own hands, biting his lip to keep it from trembling. “The Ball,” he says. “I would never. I – Riz, I checked, like, three times, just to make sure, before I left. That you were okay. I – wouldn't. Holy shit. I’m so sorry. If I’d known, I’d have – kept my phone. I - “ Fabian trails off, staring, lost, at where Riz’s shaking has transferred from his face down his spine, the cold, calculated cover cracking. “I’m sorry.” 

Riz looks up, and he’s - not crying, and not angry, but some screwed-up crossover, face scrunched and livid and desperate and lonely. 

“Then why did you _leave?”_ Riz says, and his voice cracks. 

“I - “ Fabian falters. The room descends into silence. “I’m...I don’t know. I thought.” Riz has looked back down but now Fabian has seen him, lonely and broken, and it is such a far cry from Riz grinning and chanting _fight fight fight_ that Fabian’s brain is on a loop. “I thought it would be better. I.” 

The room descends once more into silence, nothing but breathing and Fabian’s hands, jingling in chains, making aborted motions to reach out and then remembering his position. And Adaine – Adaine is still looking at Fabian with that look, detached, like a puzzle. 

“I believe him,” Adaine says, finally. 

Fabian blinks. Riz’s response is more violent, flipping entirely in his seat to stare at her. 

“I had a vision,” Adaine says, eyes still on Fabian, searching out a truth in his scarring. “I’ve had it before, just before you – died. And I think – I think it was telling me that Fabian was innocent. And - “ 

“You’re shitting me,” Riz says. 

“I know, but I promise - “ 

“You’re _shitting_ me,” Riz says again. “You - you’re - “ He gestures, widely, to Fabian, like he’s a child that can’t hear what they’re saying. “He killed me, or he could’ve, I fucking died, and just like that - “ 

“Riz,” Adaine starts, but Riz shakes his head. 

“You’re right,” Riz says to Fabian. “You should be transferred to another detective. I can’t - I can’t.” He puts his hands up as he stands, like a gesture of innocence. “I won’t,” he says, determined, turning to the door. 

There is a flash of orange-and-blue hair in the doorway – _Kristen?_ Fabian thinks, raning his neck, trying to catch a glimpse – but the door shuts loud, and it leaves Fabian and Adaine in silence, staring at the place where Riz just stood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from boat song, by woodkid. there could have been SO many titles for this chapter. i couldve made a playlist for the first scene Alone
> 
> i should be regularly updating every two-ish weeks from here on - hopefully saturdays, more likely sundays. i'm still not sure the exact number of chapters this will have, but i've set it at 20 right now just to have a general estimate of "Pretty Long."
> 
> thank you guys so much for reading and commenting!! its a delight to see responses to this, and seeing people get inspired to write their own fics has been one of the highlights of my year. please feel free to drop in @riz-gukgak on tumblr to chat!!


	4. Trampoline

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gorgug sees some things that aren't real, and misses others that are. Fig gets some. Fabian finally gets a warm welcome.

It is not technically accurate to say that Gorgug has been sexiled. Firstly, he’s pretty sure that’s a thing that only happens at college. Gorgug is not at college. He’s at a hotel. Secondly, Fig did not actually kick him out. Gorgug walked to the door, heard noises, turned around and walked back to the edge of the property, vending machine sodas in hand. And thirdly – because Gorgug did not open the door to check – it is actually not 100% certain that Fig is having sex with someone right now. It’s possible she’s just playing a very loud, very interesting game of scrabble.

The chances are pretty high, though. With the new manager breathing down their necks, there hasn’t been time lately for the shenanigans that Fig likes to get up to. It’s one of those stretches where they don’t have a third band member for Fig to mess around with, but between fans, people who think Fig is hot enough to pretend to be fans, and the various phone contacts available to her – well, Gorgug would be shocked if she hasn’t figured something out. 

Helpfully, Managar – the demonic ex-lord who came to Gorthalax for help when his circle of hell underwent some sort of coup, and whose resume was entirely “torture management,” which they figured was close enough to band management – is not here to give them metaphorical hell, either about Fig’s trysts or the tour cancellation. He had been called by hell for some freelance job or other, and after getting the band’s blessing, had taken off to deal with a couple hell escapees that were illegally roaming the material plane. Which left the room open for sexcapades. Which, once again, Gorgug is pretty sure is not actually a word that applies here, but its definition in his Comprehensive Sex Binder is less strict, so it’s probably fine. 

Gorgug unscrews the lid on his coke and takes a long, hearty sip. The bones in his fingers ache. He ignores it, digging into his pocket to grab his crystal – big, clunky, and lit up, mid-conversation. 

_Zelda: Have you told Fig yet?_

Gorgug rubs his eyes with the base of his palm – quiet and painful, not in how hard he touches but just in the touch itself, hand to eyeball to brain. 

_Gorgug: not yet _  
_Zelda: Gooorg_  
_Gorgug: im waiting for word from my dad_  
_Gorgug: also i can tell whoever i want whenever i want so there lol_  
_Zelda: I know, I’m just worried_  
_Gorgug: i know_  
_Gorgug: how did the dress hemming go?_  
_Zelda: Good! Sam was so freaked the whole time lmao_  
_Zelda: I got a picture, give me a sec!_  
_Zelda sent img9.png _

Gorgug smiles. It has been quite a while since Gorgug and Zelda went from ‘anxious high school sweethearts’ to ‘dramatic high school dumpees’ to ‘adults laughing together about their overdramatic high school relationship.’ Which is good, because when the initial awkwardness of reconnecting passed, Gorgug’s found that he really likes Zelda – not in a high school, she’s-cute-so-she-is-The-One kind of way, but like. Thinks she has good opinions, and interesting views, and is fun to play video games and hang out with. And looking at her picture, shoulders deliberately squared, eyes refusing to be shy, he’s proud of her, too. 

_Gorgug: nice_  
_Gorgug: love the hair_  
_Zelda: Thanks! I think I’m gonna do something fancy with it for the actual wedding haha_  
_Zelda: Are you still gonna make it btw?_  
_Zelda: I know you said stuff’s going on_  
_Gorgug: i’ll be there_  
_Zelda: Yay!_  
_Gorgug: :)_

“What’s a guy like you doin’ out here all alone?” Fig hollers, from a distance, and Gorgug twists, hair in his eyes, to look. She’s walking down the sidewalk toward him – a quilt curled like a villainous cape over her shoulder, hair mussed, walking with the slow lank of someone who’s just done hard exercise. She shaved her hair a few years ago, in solidarity, when Gorgug got sick of his highlights and took a razor to his own. He’s grown his back out since then, but she’d liked it short, so short it has stayed, cropped in a rough bob with her own scissors. 

“Sitting,” Gorgug says. “Also, texting Zelda. Also, you’re gonna wake people up.” 

“I’m keeping them on the alert,” Fig says, twirling dramatically between steps. Compared to the flounce, the way she drops to sit next to Gorgug on the sidewalk is unceremonious. “Why are you out here all alone?” 

“Wanted soda.” Gorgug twists to grab the other, unopened coke next to his foot and passes it to her. “Figured you could use the room to yourself.” 

“Gorgug, you are a saint,” Fig says, gratefully nudging his shoulder with hers as she takes the bottle. She sets it down, clinging with her legs to keep it up between them, and reaches around to offer Gorgug a corner of her blanket. He hadn’t even realized that he was cold. He wraps the quilt around his shoulder, scooting closer so that it will fit them both as she pulls the soda back up and chugs half the bottle. “I would’ve put my phone away if you asked, y’know. It’s your room too.” 

“I didn’t actually know if you were on your phone, or if there was a real, other person there.” 

Fig snorts, laughter bubbling like her soda does. “What, in the three minutes between you walking out to the vending machine and back to the room?” 

“You’re forgetting when you and Torek were together.” Gorgug watches Fig fumble in her pocket, like she’s looking for a cigarette. He touches her hand, gentle, with the edges of his fingers, and pushes it back onto her coke. “You guys would fuck every time I turned my back.” 

“Good times.” Fig leans her head to the side, shuffling the blanket a little, smiling fondly. Her fingers stretch around the bottle. “Think she’ll be down to hang when we get to Elmville? Little reunion tour?”

“With you _and_ Fabian around? I doubt it.” 

“Threesome. Hot.” 

Gorgug laughs, a kind of barking punch of a noise. Fig smiles and goes back to her soda, gazing, idly, at the skyline, at the smattering of trees that make up the property next to their shitty little motel. Gorgug pulls his crystal back up, typing quick, instinctive, to get back into his texts. 

_Zelda: I know the circumstances suck, but it’ll be kinda nice to see you when you get back in town _  
_Zelda: And you might be able to check w the hospital about your stuff_  
_Gorgug: fig cant go to the hospital she made out with one of the doctors when she was 15 lol_  
_Zelda: You can go to the hospital alone, Gorgug _

“Think it’s gonna be weird?” When Gorgug looks up, Fig’s eyes are distant, looking somewhere beyond the trees as she swirls her soda in its bottle. Fig is gorgeous. That has always been the way things are – Fig is cropped and sharp and pinched and gorgeous. And curled up in a blanket, she is also small. Gorgug has known her long enough to know that she is thinking of the frantic texts Kristen sent yesterday:_ fabian got free, @ elmville station, come home._ “Not just – I mean, you know, the whole gang being together, but also. Uh.” 

A moment passes in silence. “Also?” Gorgug finally prompts. 

Fig looks down at the pavement underneath them. “It’s the first time since – uh. The first time being back. Since.” Fig lets out a frustrated sigh. “I - you know.” 

“I do not know.” 

“Just let me be cryptic, Jesus fuck.” Fig shoves him with her shoulder. He shoves her right back, and when she sees the familiar glint in his eye she sticks her tongue out at him. “Just - since I broke up with Harmond. You know? And they’re all gonna be, like, fucking, ‘I told you so,’ and judgy and whatever. Right? Or am I being a dick right now?” 

“When have you ever cared what people think about you?” Gorgug says instead of answering her question. 

Fig throws her head back and laughs. “Good point.” She shakes her head, like she’s thinking, and then again, harder, like she’s trying to shake something from her hair. “I just – I don’t know.” She takes a sip of her drink. “They’re gonna get all this satisfaction about being right. And like. Blaaah. It sucks. Y’know?” 

“Sure,” says Gorgug, absolutely not knowing. 

“Especially - it’s just, like, ugh. I already feel bad about all the shit with him. And now I’m going to feel bad about all the shit they give me about him. And it just sucks! It sucks.” 

“Sure.” 

Fig blows out a long, frustrated breath, and Gorgug leans his arm against hers, a line of warmth and support along her side. A minute passes in silence. Then two. Gorgug’s bones are aching, again, and he is looking at the trees, thinking. 

“Thanks,” Fig says, when a long silence has passed. “For letting me vent. And letting me have the room for a minute.” Her final sigh seems to release all of her tension, shoulders dropping and back sagging to lean against Gorgug underneath the blanket. “Some fuckin’ vodka would make this so much easier.” 

“No, it wouldn’t.” 

“Yeah, it would.” Fig leans her head fully on Gorgug’s shoulder. 

Gorgug leans his head on top of hers – a hard navigation for anyone else, between the horns, but Gorgug and Fig have been managing their cuddle strategies for so long that maneuvering is second nature now. It’s dark and getting darker, the early autumn setting in. Aguefort’s probably starting school soon, if it hasn’t already. Halloween decorations are coming out. Pools are closing. 

In the peace of the hotel sidewalk, with no sound but the mild hum of the vending machines, a leaf falls, and Gorgug could swear that it glints metal. 

His bones ache. But Fig is leaning on him, muttering as the stars wander into the night sky, and he cannot bring himself to move.

* * *

They make it back to Elmville two days after Kristen’s frantic initial texts, but they get in at terrible-o’clock in the evening, so it is not until the next morning that they actually see their friends again. They politely refuse the leftovers that Gorgug’s parents push on them, Fig makes another hard bargain on keeping their dog as the official band mascot, and then they putter off in their shitty van, pulling into the police station at a little before noon.

Two figures are loitering on the sidewalk in front of the station. Adaine doesn’t look much different from her last obligatory selfie; the bulky sweater she’s got on today is a little more clean, maybe, and she’s hiding her hair under a baseball cap, the same way she used to do when she had that terrible perm junior year. Next to her – 

“Fabian!” Gorgug shouts, feet carrying him at double speed, as he scoops Fabian into a hug.

He’s short! Or – well, Gorgug’s gotten taller, realistically, but Fabian feels short. That’s probably weirder for Fabian than him. He’s shaving again, too. And he got the eye fixed! That’s fun. Bunch of scars he didn’t get fixed though. Maybe he thinks they look cool? He does look very pirate-y. Other than the overlarge hoodie that he’s been forced into, which Gorgug suspects was picked up specifically to make him look less pirate-y. It’s super not working. But who cares! He’s alive and whole and allowing himself to be lifted into a rib-crushing hug, and Gorgug is happy to let everything else lie as is.

It is a long moment before Fabian reaches up and reciprocates, hands wrapping tentative around Gorgug’s torso. Gorgug doesn’t take it personally. Fabian’s always been weird about touch. But it does make Gorgug realize that the group has devolved into tense silence. He pulls back, setting Fabian back on his feet, and frowns.

“Oh!” It clicks. “You didn’t kill Riz, right?”

Fabian’s jaw works for a moment. It’s surreal. Parts of Fabian’s response – the spluttering, the wild hand movements – are just the same as Fabian has always been, and others – the way his eyes slowly go soft, which is the most subtle Gorgug has ever seen him express an emotion before – are so different. It didn’t occur to Gorgug until right now that probably everyone he knows has changed some, in those stupid, tiny ways. Weird.

“No,” Fabian says finally, voice a little strangled. “I would never.”

“I didn’t think so!” Gorgug sweeps him back up into a second hug. Fabian shouts as he’s picked back up again, but laughter is hidden under the protest, so Gorgug keeps tight for a good few seconds, just to feel the reality under his hands. Gorgug isn’t sure exactly how, but when he sets Fabian down this time, some of the dourness has faded from the atmosphere. Fabian is smiling! So that’s a win. 

“If you pick me up like that again,” Fabian wheezes, but Gorgug already saw the smile so it’s too late, no take-backs, “we are going to fight.”

“I’d win. Again!” Fabian snorts but does not argue. Gorgug is just grinning, looking at him. He’s happy to see Adaine too! And Adaine seems happy to see him – her mouth is kind of twitching, that way it does when she’s really happy, at that barrier where she starts trying to hide it. But Adaine was here a few months ago, and Fabian was here…a long, long time. Gorgug still sweeps Adaine into a hug of her own, which she folds into with much more grace than Fabian had. “Welcome back! How’s Fallinel?”

“Terrible,” Adaine laughs. “I was elated for an excuse to leave.”

“Sounds about right. How’s Averick doing?”

“Giving me shit, like always.” Adaine makes a face as Gorgug sets her back down, resting a hand on his arm. “He’s covering for me. I don’t know how he’s going to slip away at the end of the month, honestly, I don’t understand half the things he does.”

“Dude, have you gotten me his number yet?” Fig has sidled up between conversations, quiet enough that Gorgug hadn’t even realized she was there until she spoke.

“No one is getting Averick’s number.” Adaine rubbed her forehead, sighing, and giving Fig a very different kind of smile, the one reserved just for Fig and Kristen. “Good to see you back. Sorry about your tour.”

“Blah, it’s fine.” Fig waves a hand in dismissal as she leans in, wrapping Adaine into a tight, one-armed embrace. Her hand lingers on Adaine’s back even after she pulls away. “Black Pit has a few openings on stage that they were super hype to give us. One of ‘em’s, tonight, so that kinda sucks, but you know.”

“You’re performing tonight?” Adaine frowns.

“Just the regular set,” Fig shrugs. “Nothing fancy. I wanted to ask Torek to come back on stage for a band reunion, but noooo.”

“My parents might come,” Gorgug says.

“I begged his parents to come,” Fig clarifies. “They rock out on synth.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” Adaine’s smile is pursed again, that super-happy that she tries to hide. It tapers when she turns back to Fabian, and Fig finally makes eye contact with him.

Gorgug is not known for his powers of perception. He’s 24 years old, and he still often forgets that he does not have to ask every person he meets if they are his dad. But Gorgug knows Fig very well. And when Fig smiles at Fabian, he knows that it is a guarded smile, that when she crosses her arms at him it is a silent threat. And in Gorgug’s memory, it is not in Fabian’s nature to back down, but this time – now, older – he ducks his head and allows the suspicion.

Man. He wishes he had a high enough insight to interpret any of that information.

“So what’s happening?” Gorgug says, shifting weight across his feet. “I mean, what’re you in town for? How long?”

“Fabian’s here indefinitely, as part of the investigation into Aelwen,” Adaine says at the same time Fabian opens his mouth to start talking. He frowns but – once again, in a way that 16-year-old Fabian never, ever would’ve, Gorgug’s a little blindsided by it – defers. “But since Riz has given up the case for, uh,” Adaine pauses, “obvious reasons, the department has to find someone else willing to be the official investigator. Since I’m not officially employed by the Elmville Police Department, so I can’t actually be in charge myself.”

“Wild,” Gorgug says. “So do we know who the new head is?”

Fabian makes a noise of distress – and this time, Adaine defers to him. “I, uh,” Fabian says. “I want to. Convince the Ball to take the case back.”

“Hmm.” Fig’s voice is completely devoid of emotion, beyond a biting note at the end of it. “Gonna be hard.”

Fabian makes eye contact with her, chin jutting up proud, and Gorgug blinks at the staredown. “I don’t – “ Fabian, still Fabian, faltering when he speaks, and Gorgug feels a burst of warmth for absolutely no reason at all. “I don’t. It’s, perhaps selfish, but I don’t want Riz to think that it was me. I want to prove that it wasn’t. Because there is an actual person who murdered him, and I’d like to find and gut them, primarily, but also because I consider the Ball a…” Fabian grimaces. “Friend. And I know he considered me a friend, at one point. And I. Owe it to him. Or. I want him to know.”

“What?” Gorug says, because none of that meant a goddamn thing.

“Just – “ Fabian makes a grand motion with his hands that he quits halfway through. “It’s difficult to put into words, you know, this isn’t a common situation, but – I want him to know that I wouldn’t, okay? It. Matters. To me. What he thinks of me.” Fabian throws his arms up. “This is gross. This is too many emotions.”

“You have not changed,” Adaine shakes her head.

Fig’s eyes are still hard, staring down Fabian with her arms crossed. But something she sees must make her certain, because she sets her jaw and grins. “Hear that, Gorg?” she says, elbowing him gently in the stomach. “We’re getting the old gang back together. Like an adventure!”

Gorgug blinks. “Should I call Hargis?”

“I’m not watching you and Hargis make kissy faces at each other the entire time, ew.”

“You had phone sex last night.”

“And you left the room, so it was cool!”

“Blargh,” Gorgug says, because he does not have anything more to say, and because when he says ‘blargh’ it makes Fig giggle.

“Blargh,” she says back.

“BLARGH,” Gorgug says.

They continue in this vein for a strong minute and a half before they finally reattach to the conversation, where Adaine has been muttering something to Fabian – reassurances, probably, though Gorgug really doesn’t know. “Alright,” Fig finally says, leaning up against Gorgug’s frame as they talk to the group again. "We have the gig tonight, so whatever it is will have to wait, but alright. Let’s hear the plan.”

The four of them clamber back down on the sidewalk next to the police station. Gorgug’s knees ache as he goes to sit, but he waves off Adaine’s offer of a hand and Fig’s confused frown. He’s busy, anyway – they’re not exactly inconspicuous. Gorgug’s glance around for anyone who may be watching them is fruitless, so he settles back in, leaning against Fabian’s stiff posture as Adaine pulls out papers, laying out a plan.

But Gorgug is not known for his perceptive powers. As Adaine launches into an explanation, as Fig interjects with witty disclaimers, as Fabian needles them all for how they’ve changed and grown, Gorgug does not see the red-skinned figure clambering around through bushes and walls. He does not watch them listen in. He does not see them scamper off to report back to a figure unknown, visages and knowledge in their pocket.

Gorgug watches, but Gorgug doesn’t see. Instead he leans up against his friends, listens to them talk, and lets the stiffness of his muscles melt away into the exhausted, bone-chilling ache that has grown too familiar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from the song trampoline by shaed. this is the last chapter that'll be posted before fantasy high goes live again this wednesday! make sure u catch it on the dropout twitch, and catch me on tumblr @riz-gukgak for The Meta TM


	5. Ivy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Riz reflects. Kristen finds a new purposes for an old enemy. Gorgug gets in over his head.

“I don’t think this is what your mom meant by relaxing,” Kristen says for maybe the fourth time as they pull into the visitor parking lot of Aguefort Adventuring Academy. 

“I’m relaxed,” Riz says. “I’m so relaxed. This is the happiest I’ve been all week.” 

“Your eye is twitching.” 

“There’s something stuck in it.” 

Kristen heaves a sigh as Riz rubs, determined, at his eye, where there surely must be an eyelash or something, because he’s doing just fine. He’s doing so good right now. “We could do something else,” she says, uselessly, because Riz is not looking at her. “Get some ice cream. Catch Fig and Gorgug’s show. Walk around the mall.” 

“I want to be here,” Riz says, and forces himself to look back up, face the bloodrush field head on. He’s long since forced himself past freaking out every time he sees the hill where he died, but there is still something undeniably weird about being back at your high school, years after leaving. 

Kristen shakes her head, but she finally turns the key, letting the car sputter off. “If you change your mind – “ she starts. 

“I know,” Riz says quickly. He takes the door handle but stops, not quite trembling, before pulling it open. “…thanks,” he says, quiet. “For driving me. And – yeah.” 

Kristen doesn’t reach out to him, because Riz is hunched over, coat collar up, facing away, and it’s hard not to pick up the vibes he’s trying to put down. Somehow, though, he still feels something like the warmth of her touch when she says, “Any time, man.” Something in the softness of her voice, maybe, or the sympathy in her stance – he can feel it just as much as any touch. And he pushes the door open in a hurry to get away from it, slouching further into himself all the way. 

Coming to the school was not his first choice. His first choice of case was that big deal pixie dust dealer they’re still hunting down, but his mom said no. And his mom is also his boss, so not only can she say he should take a mental health day, she can officially order him to take a mental health day. Which is just so unfair. He can’t believe he’s 24 years old and grounded. 

_(Well – not grounded, because she had not been angry, standing in her office with him, cradling him gentle in her arms around the handfuls off paperwork he’d brought her. “Take a day,” she’d said, into his shoulder. Riz forgets, most of the time, how much taller than her he’s gotten, except when they hug, when she feels small and frail in his arms. He hadn’t noticed her aging, when he was a kid. Her hair is going grey. “For me. Okay? Just one day off. Do something with your friends.” _

_“I don’t want to hang out,” Riz said. “I want to work. This dust could be – “ _

_ “Just one,” Sklonda said. “One day.” _

_“What’ll I even do?” _

_“Check on your dad. Have dinner with me and Gorthalax. Go on a date.” _

_Riz let out a bitter not-laugh. “Yeah, now’s the time for dating.” _

_She squeezed at the grip on his waist. “Please.” _

_When she pulled back, she was looking at him in a way that she hadn’t in a long, long time, not since he was in middle school, coming home with his briefcase stained where the other kids threw it in the mud. Her face was getting more wrinkles, her voice rougher. When he was growing up, she was growing old, and he did not know until it was too late, how much that meant. “Please,” she said again, with the eyes of a woman who has seen the dead bodies of her whole family in front of her. “One day.” _

_He wanted to point to the papers. He wanted to work. He wanted to stop thinking. _

_“Okay,” he said, not for himself, but for her, and that was that.) _

Riz tried to relax. Really. Initially, he bummed around the apartment, playing Evanescence and feeling bad for himself, and also a little stupid for listening to Evanescence at 24 years old. Then he had wished for the first time that he had taken Penny’s offer to be her best man for the distraction of wedding planning, which he cured by calling Penny's mom and listening to her complain about tablecloth colors for an hour. Then he felt sorry for himself for a little longer. Then he got a little stir crazy, and also ran out of coffee, and Penny’s mom had mentioned that Penny had submitted a report of some kind to the police department. And. It’s not work if Riz isn’t there officially. It’s still relaxation. It’s fine. 

Kristen is here as moral support, because Kristen has been moral support for several days. It has been an enormous pain, the moral support. Not that he doesn’t appreciate her trying to make him (ugh) talk about it. He does. But he doesn’t know how he’d even start to say it. He doesn’t know how to explain that when Fabian walked in the door, his first instinct was not, “Oh god, it’s the man who killed me,” or fear, or hope; it was to be irritated that after all those years lecturing Fabian that his missing eye would give have mechanical consequences, Fabian had gone about getting it fixed after he left, and probably still doesn't appreciate that Riz was right. Which is nothing. It’s stupid. 

And it’s even less helpful that Riz is almost certain Kristen’s help is less out of conviction for his side and more out of concern. Not to say – Riz doesn't blame Kristen for hoping Fabian isn’t guilty. All of them hope, Riz thinks. None of them really want to believe. Not Kristen, who always sees the best in everyone, and not Fig, who sent off a text halfway through Moping Session 2 that simply said, “I'm on your side, bro.” Certainly not Adaine, who he has not talked to in days except to stoically make sure she was alright sharing a bed with Kristen, or Gorgug, who had brought Riz near tears of frustration trying to explain his position more than once. 

Riz would probably be angrier about it if there wasn’t some part of him – tiny and naïve, a piece of himself he squashed in every half-formed daydream of the last six years – that wants to believe in Fabian, too. In the summer after freshman year, the night after Bill Seacaster’s funeral at sea, Riz stayed over at Fabian’s house. They talked about Bill’s last message together. Riz had shown him Pok’s last message for solidarity. They stayed up all night playing _Legends of Krys_ and binging shitty game shows. And at 5 am, after not-thinking about it and not-talking about it for hours and hours, Fabian leaned his head against the bed, and closed his eyes, and said, _I don’t want to die. I don’t ever want to die._ There’s a piece of Riz that stayed awake as they crawled into Fabian’s enormous, stupidly fluffy bed, and watched Fabian’s eyes flutter in his sleep, and realized that he would go wherever Fabian went forever. There’s a piece of Riz for whom Fabian is a scared teenage boy rolling his eyepatch over in his hands, and Riz cannot imagine that boy killing him. 

But that part of Riz is stupid, and wrong, because that part of Riz also didn’t think Fabian would cut him off and leave, either. That part of Riz concocted elaborate plans where the Fabian he chased was a fake clone and the real Fabian was adventuring in some other plane and was desperately trying to come back, because of course. Riz would save him and he’d come back and they’d be best friends again because Fabian would never leave him. 

But he would. Clearly. Even if his shock at Riz dying was sincere – which Riz still isn’t letting himself believe, entirely, because he can’t - he left, still. He didn’t want Riz around. He didn’t even care enough to keep in contact. If there was a bow to wrap on this mystery, it would only come with Fabian as the bad guy. 

Riz is a practical person. Efficient. He had come to terms with the fact that Fabian was not coming back, except maybe in chains. That the clues all pointed to Fabian killing him, either accidentally in the heat of battle or intentionally, and run away from the consequences. He had gotten used to it, even. That the only closure he might get would likely be painful and hard. And he was fine with it. He was fine. It made sense. It added up. 

Riz usually loves mysteries. 

None of that means anything. The point is, he isn’t thinking about it. That’s all stupid, and it makes him miserable, and he’s not going to deal with it, because fuck you. He’s thinking about the PLOT. He’s thinking about the MAIN STORYLINE. He’s going to put his head down and push until he finds a clue and then he’s going to continue Not Thinking About It until the clue after that, like a smart person with healthy coping mechanisms. And not Fabian. Because fuck that guy. Jackass. 

He is conveniently distracted from insistently not thinking about Fabian by the familiar shout of "HEY!" from one Penny Luckstone, soon to be Penny Nightingale, current rogue professor of Aguefort Adventuring Academy. “Loitering after school hours isn’t allowed,” she hollers from the other side of the parking lot, her whole face split by her grin as she walks over. Like usual, Penny is the opposite of stealth, a bright pink flower tucked behind an ear, dress an assortment of bright blues and greens. Like usual, this is a ruse. “I’m afraid I’ll need to call the cops on you.” 

“I mean, you can,” Riz says, forcing himself not to go completely still as she squeezes him in a hug. “I’ll answer my crystal. Probably be easier to just talk face to face, though.” 

“Jackass,” Penny laughs. She kisses him on the cheek before swooping around and grabbing Kristen in a hug of her own. “Hey, Ostentatia said you haven’t been texting her. Everything okay?” 

“Doing fine.” Kristen is much less awkward about contact than Riz, her hug less stilted but no less honest. “Just going through some stuff with my living situation, trying to sort shit out and all that. I’ll text her an update tonight.” 

“Good.” Penny pulls back and turns back to Riz. Riz’s Fabian reprieve is immediately deleted when Penny leans in and, in a low whisper, says, “I heard Seacaster’s back in town.” 

“Yes,” Riz says, stiffly Not Thinking About. 

“Not in jail,” Penny says, watching him. “Walking free.” 

“I don’t want to talk about it.” 

Penny looks at him for a long moment, eyes narrowing the longer she watches. Then she claps him on the shoulder. “Just as a reminder,” Penny says, “if you want me to, I will absolutely stab him to death.” 

“I know you will.” 

“And then bring him back. And then kill him again.” 

“I’ve seen you do it.” 

“I’ve killed for less.” 

“I’m with the police. This is going on your record.” 

Penny hugs him again. He sighs, smiles, and lets his head drop onto her shoulder. Penny’s shows of support are strange and violent as ever, but something still blooms, kind and simple, at the knowledge that someone, at least, is wholeheartedly on his side. Good old Penny. 

“So back to the case at hand,” Riz says when he pulls away, his voice not cracking. “The report said someone’s missing?” 

“Mr. Pepper,” Penny confirms, and – at Riz and Kristen’s blank expressions – “Aasimar? The head of the theater department?” 

“We had a theater department?” Riz says. 

“We still have a theater department?” Kristen says. 

“I was also surprised. But yeah.” Penny gestures them towards the bloodrush field. It’s not quite chilly out, but Riz is still thankful for his coat, tugging it a little tighter as they walk. “It’s not a big program or anything, but the kids who liked it really liked it. Lot of bards. You remember those freshmen from the first day of school, when we had to call you guys in?” 

“Oh boy,” Riz says. 

“Yeah. One of ‘em was a theater kid. They’ve, uh – they've already had the run of the place, snuck past and got a look at it. I’m trying to get the other teachers to look the other way.” Penny waggles her fingers. “Real-world experience, you know?” 

“Sure do,” Riz says. They ring around the field, breaking over the bleachers towards a smaller, run-down building that Riz had no idea existed on school grounds. “Six of ‘em, right? Got stuck together on a project or something?” 

“Sounds familiar,” Kristen says, and her face is half a grin, looking back at the school. 

“Well, hopefully it’s not exactly like you guys,” Penny says with a note of humor as she leads them up the path to the theater building’s back door. She fiddles for a moment in her pocket – not for a key, but for a lockpick. She deftly maneuvers the door open, kicking it with a loud _thunk_ that underscores the subtlety of the entrance a little. “I’d love to not get kidnapped until at least after the wedding.” 

“When you let the freshmen in, did they take anything with them?” Riz is all business when he strides inside, glancing briefly around the curtain before committing the back of the stage as the place to start investigating. Lots of equipment here – not lights, which Riz suspects probably have to be adjusted by someone who can actually see them as they’re happening, but props, sets, pieces of costumes. Lots of room to hide something. 

“Don’t think so.” Riz ignores the giggle in Penny’s voice that she is no doubt trading with Kristen behind his back. He’s a detective, dammit. “One of them’s a paladin. Really insistent on leaving everything exactly where it was, making sure that they didn’t leave any trace of themselves.” 

“Covering tracks is more of a rogue thing, isn’t it?” Kristen says. 

“Well, if you’re any good, it’s an _every adventurer_ thing,” Penny snorts. 

Yeah, that conversation’s going nowhere. Good time to tune out. Riz falls easy into investigation mode, carding through boxes of supplies and shimmying through gaps to check for any signs of intruders. He can’t believe there’s really a theater program at Aguefort. He thought Hargis was joking. 

In the end, between the investigation checks of the whole team, they find two things out of place. The first is a wand – tingling with very simple magic, probably just a cantrip. “It definitely doesn’t belong to the kids,” Penny says. “None of ‘em are wizards. Not for a play, either, unless somebody was pulling some shit, magic hasn’t been allowed for the set design since the performance of _Tabaxis_ went sour.” 

“That performance of what?” Kristen says. 

“It’s a play about a bunch of tabaxi having an orgy to compete for who gets to die,” Riz says, which is actually correct information. “Weird energy. Good music though. Same guy that did _Lich of the Ampitheater._” 

“The _what_ of the _what,”_ Kristen says, and is ignored. 

The second item is more powerful, more magical, and way weirder. “That’s a cricket bat,” Penny says. 

“You should’ve gone to detective school with me.” Penny makes a face as Riz holds the bat up. The bat itself is brown, but the handle is obsidian black, engraved, too fancy by far to be used for actual cricket games. “No plays have been on about cricket, right?” 

“Not as far as I know, but I don’t keep up with it too closely,” Penny shrugs. 

“Wait.” Kristen grabs the bat from Riz, flips it over in her hands, squints on either end of it, traces the engravings with a finger. “Wait a second. Wait. I’ve seen this before.” 

“You have?” Riz says. 

“Yeah. Just - “ Kristen flaps a hand and pulls it up to look closer. She mimes like she’s hitting something with it. She pulls it back up again. Finally – after several minutes of this tomfoolery – her face lights up. “Oh my god,” she says, grabbing Riz’s shoulder. “This is Kalvaxus’.” 

Riz blinks. “What?” 

“You know – when he was Goldenrod? On the first day, before he was principal, he was the disciplinarian, and he carried around a cricket bat. He called it – fuck, he called it Old Something. But he had it. Right? Remember?” 

“Shit,” Riz says, and takes the bat in hand himself. “You’re right. Shit.” On closer inspection, the inscription along the base are not runes – they’re draconic glyphs. “What the fuck is Goldenrod’s bat doing here?” 

“Wasn’t it Goldenhoard?” Penny says, taking her turn to be ignored. 

“Maybe there’s like, a cult or something?” Kristen says. “Trying to bring back their asshole dragon god? Or – maybe that’s what they want us to think, to throw us off the trail?” 

“Hard to say. No evidence.” Riz scowls at it. On closer look, he can't believe he didn't realize earlier. What he thought was engraving is actually solid gold inlay, which, when held diagonally, clearly spells 'KVX' down the side - exactly Kalvaxus' brand of stupid fancy bullshit. “Identify spell might tell us something about who had it, or at least what it can do. I’ll take it back to evidence so Adaine can look at it.” 

“Can I have it for now?” Riz shrugs and passes it to Kristen, who is immediately beguiled by Penny into playing psuedo-baseball with the bat and some crumpled props she found. Riz rolls his eyes as he walks to the other end of the room, pushing the curtain side so that he can truly see the stage, looking out on rows of auditorium seating and lights that must blind any performers. 

Before he can roll investigation on this side of the room, Riz feels a vibration next to his hip. He slaps at his pockets for his crystal, scrambling across his own hips in a weird game of frisking himself for a moment before he finally digs it out. He opens it with a quick brush of his thumb and – huh. 

_THREE NEW TEXTS FROM: UNKNOWN NUMBER. _

_UNKNOWN NUMBER sent: [img3.png] _  
_UNKNOWN NUMBER sent: [flyer.png]_  
_UNKNOWN NUMBER SENT: better hurry up, briefcase kid._

Riz frowns. No one's called him briefcase kid since middle school – but more importantly, the number seems familiar, in a way that only clocks very distantly with him. Part of him feels like this is the most obvious trap he’s ever seen in his life. Most of him really likes mysteries. 

The flyer is simple – a hastily done piece for a last-minute show at the Black Pit tonight. Fig and Gorgug are heading the front stage as ‘surprise guests,’ and several smaller, more indie scenes are taking over the other rooms. It’s not anything new – Fig had sent him the same flyer earlier, ‘just in case he wanted to get out’ - and it doesn’t really have anything to do with the text. But there is – for some reason, the number 2 is written next to Gorgug’s name, definitely handwritten, not on the original flyer. 

Riz thumbs open the other image, and he stops breathing. 

Standing on the stage of an empty theater, in darkness and silence, alone, Riz looks at a picture of his dead body. 17 years old. Lain in a sitting position against the bleachers. A sword carved through his shirt, down his chest. His eyes, in the image, are open, lifeless, cold, dark, silent. 

Riz breathes. He makes himself do it again. He looks at the image. 

_better hurry up, briefcase kid._

Riz turns on his heel and makes a break for the Black Pit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this ones late! chapter named after the song by frank ocean. this chapter kicked my ass, it was such a pain, im really sorry it took me so long. heres riding the hype for fantasy high live for Real tomorrow, yall!


	6. Earfquake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fig fights a losing battle. Adaine asks for a reprieve. Fabian gets into a barfight.

Fig notices first, ‘cause she’s all tense, so she’s paying more attention. Which doesn’t make a lot of sense, actually. You’d think the stress would distract her. And then she’d tune her bass or stare at her notebook as she fiddles with lyrics or show Gorgug the stupid fucking text from her stupid fucking ex so that he’d say something obvious about Harmond being a dick and she could feel vindicated and block the number again. That would make sense. That should be what happens. 

It’s not what happens, though. Fig looks up from the text – which, by the way, it’s a fucking terrible text. Even beyond the weird use of lingo for serious statements, Harmond is just so bad at talking, and always has been. His line of logic is just a bunch of garbage with no connection to each other. He’s not even high or anything when he does it, that’s just like, who he is as a person, just completely absurd. Which Fig would jive with so hard if he wasn’t also a raging dickbag. Unfortunately he super is, the fucking creep. 

So she looks up from this poorly written monster paragraph of a not-apology, which Harmond should be sending to his fucking wife, not Fig. She’s all jumbled up on the couch in the Black Pit’s back room, sprawled out like she’s been playing Twister with Riz the super-dexterous monster and she’s trying to show off that she can do just as good as he can. So she looks up. And she’s intending to talk to Gorgug, who is lying perpendicular on the floor next to her feet, scrolling through his crystal watching the shitty YouTube snippets she sent him last night, but something catches her eye. Not movement, exactly, but just. Presence. An existence in the space. 

Fig’s not looking to fight, per se. But she’s kind of expecting one. They’re adventurers, y’know? There’s a kind of rhythm, to these things, a pace to the way the world works. And they’re hitting that point, right, where they’ve been doing not-fights for a while, and they’re creeping up on the time limit of when not-fights have to turn into yes-fights. She felt it coming back, when Kristen texted, when they saw Fabian again, the gang coming back and the adventure starting up. So she can feel it, coming on, a Combat Episode. Which is why her first instinct is to sit up, so she’s not fuckin’ prone, and nothing’s getting advantage. 

“Ow,” Gorgug says, when she kicks him in the face on accident. He frowns up, hair splayed underneath him, where she’s gone tense, reaching for her guitar with one hand. “You good?” 

“It’s good,” Fig says, lightly. Gorgug gets it, right away, sitting up himself to blink blearily around. Gorgug is more perceptive than most people give him credit for. Part of that’s the joke of it, because Gorgug is an excellent straight man and the Fig and Gorg comedy routine is upstaged only by their musical routine. And part of it is the underestimating, because Gorgug learns a lot, and sees a lot, when people think he doesn’t, almost like unintentional spying. People don’t know that about Gorgug. Fig thinks probably Gorgug doesn’t know that about Gorgug, not consciously anyway, that he doesn’t realize he’s actually pretty smart. “Just thought I saw something.” 

Gorgug sits up, squinting, and he’s reaching for his own axe – discarded amongst the empty instrument cases, so that the holster doesn’t dig into his ass – when a small voice, coming from nowhere, says, “It’s me!”

“Oh, hi Adaine,” Gorgug says, both of them relaxing their grip on their weapons. “You know you don’t have to sneak back here, right? We’d let you in.”

“The crowd was too much for me, and I couldn’t bring Boggy because of the no-familiar policy. I wanted to be invisible for a while.” There’s a shifting, and when Fig lifts up her legs she watches the sofa dip where Adaine sits, still see-through. There’s a fumbling as Fig rests her legs in Adaine’s lap, trying not to kick her stomach, but eventually they settle.

Fig doesn’t mean for her voice to sound waspish, but it comes out that way, like how she used to talk to her mom when she was 16 and didn’t know better. “You left Fabian out there with no one watching him, huh?”

Adaine’s voice is tired. “He has amnesty. Legally, he doesn’t have to be watched or kept at the station. We’re very lucky he hasn’t protested it so far, or we’d have to let him go. I’d say he’s earned a few minutes of peace.”

“But – “ Fig has to cut herself off, shaking her head. There’s no use arguing with Adaine, especially not when she gets like this, all self-righteous and just and whatever. It’s a hard thing, clamping down on that instinct Fig has to scream, _This is selfish, this is bullshit, why are you siding with him, why did you spend all that time complaining about him picking your sister over you if you were just gonna pick fucking up your sister over helping Riz, this is GARBAGE._ It won’t help. It would feel nice to say, a little, before Adaine would be hurt and it’d feel really terrible to say, but it won’t help. “Whatever.” Fig goes back to tuning her bass. It doesn’t need it, but it’s a good distraction, keeps her from trying to see something in Adaine’s invisible form and from checking her phone at the same time. “If you say so.”

Fig can’t see Adaine, still – which is weird, Fig hates when Adaine goes invisible, it’s like she could leave at any time and Fig could be talking to thin air like an idiot without knowing – but she can still feel Adaine’s curious gaze on her face. Fig doesn’t care. If Adaine can read the frustration, it’s her fucking problem whether she wants to comment on it or not, not Fig’s. “You can speak your mind,” Adaine says, quiet.

She sounds tired. She’s had a hard week, Fig knows, and she shouldn’t be angry, she should drop it, but Fig is not good at rolling over and letting shit happen, never has been. “Just – if he really gave a shit about how Riz felt, do you think he’d be fucking pushing, and shit, when Riz said he didn’t want anything to do with him? That’s shitty, Adaine. You gotta see how that’s shitty.”

There is a brief silence. “Ah,” Adaine says, like something’s settled. “How long are you and Harmond breaking up for this time?”

Fig bites her tongue to keep from snapping. “Fuck you,” she says, but it’s less heat and more weariness, the same bone-deep exhaustion that Adaine has. Fig leans her head back against the couch arm. “That’s not what this is about. And you fuckin’ know it, man, don’t change the subject.”

“Isn’t it?” Adaine shifts, still invisible, and her hands are making soothing motions over Fig’s leg but that doesn’t change the fact that Adaine is wrong and Fig is not fucking doing this. “I mean. I don’t want to say I told you so, but – “

“Adaine,” Fig says through grit teeth.

A short silence. “Sorry,” Adaine says. And she really is, too. Adaine’s so fucking honest about her feelings, all the time, Fig can’t even really stay mad at her because she always knows when she’s gone too far and pulls back right away. Which sucks, ‘cause right now Fig just really want someone to be mad at, and she can’t, like, take it out on Adaine, that’s not fair. “I know it’s a bad situation for you.”

“What I’m trying to say,” Fig says, “is that I know what warning signs look like, dude. There’s no angle on this where Fabian isn’t being a dick.”

Gorgug clears his throat. “I think,” he says, and pauses to gather his thoughts. Gorgug only talks when he has something to say. The value of that something varies wildly – not by Fig’s estimation, to whom Gorgug is a constant goldmine of genius, but by anyone else in the world – but it is always interesting. “I think,” he starts again, “that if we got the whole story, and Riz didn’t want Fabian around, he’d leave. I think it’s just the part where he doesn’t know the truth that’s bothering Fabian.”

“Riz likes mysteries.” Adaine is still doing that soothing trace over Fig’s shin, and it’s irritating how well it’s working, how much Adaine’s soothing is genuinely calming her down. “He wants the full story, even if he’s having trouble admitting it. And Fabian does too. It’s fair, that Riz should have all of the information before he makes conclusions, don’t you think?”

Fig hates when her friends make sense. It makes it so hard for her to stay pissed off. “That’s assuming Fabian is telling the truth,” she grumbles.

She feels Adaine shrug under her. “It’s an assumption to think he’s lying, too,” she says, and her voice is still soft, still tired, but it has that quiet warmth to it that Fig evokes, usually on accident. “If he did it, then we’ll find proof of it, and we’ll deal with it. But…I want to believe he didn’t. Is that bad?”

Fig swears under her breath. “You are playing the pity card,” she accuses.

“Is it working?”

“Yes,” Fig groans, and feels Adaine’s legs shake in silent laughter.

Fig’s starting to say something else when Gorgug shoots up again, red alert, hand gone to his axe. Fig stops, and after a moment, she hears it too – a long, loud hiss, followed by a shout.

Oh god. She forgot. The rhythm of adventure. A fight’s coming. She was supposed to be ready for a fight coming.

“Shit,” Adaine says, and all three of them scramble over each other to get out from backstage, to the front room of the Black Pit, where the sounds of screaming to the band is morphing quickly into a different type of screaming.

They’ve fought in the Black Pit before – they were split up then, too, in weird configurations and assortments, and Fig instinctively locks Adaine’s hand in her own to keep her from getting cornered by werewolves alone again, maybe some that wouldn’t be as friendly as Jawbone was. The déjà vu is almost pounding, as they rush onto the front stage, music screeching through magically enhanced speakers. At the front door of the Black Pit, Fig catches sight of Riz, in his stupid fucking joke trenchcoat, and when she catches his eye she sees a moment of relief; over his shoulder, Kristen, rushing in, pulling out her staff; in the center of the room, Fabian, a long cut across his cheek, whirling around, rapier out; and Fig cranes, over Gorgug’s shoulder, Adaine’s grip tight, trying to see what he’s fighting, trying to see –

The music stops. The screaming stops. Fig’s mouth is moving, people are rushing, but there is no noise.

In the center of the room, Fig pushes around to see a tiefling, eyes just barely darker red than his skin, hooves, long horns, the whole nine yards. He’s flanked by demons with thorny beards and purple skin, chomping at the bit for a fight.

The tiefling catches Fig’s eye. He winks.

Everyone rolls initiative.

_Silence,_ as a spell, doesn’t mean much for any of the fighters, other than a distinct lack of cool one-liners. For spell casters, who rely on verbal materials for most anything they do, it is crippling. First in initiative, Fig feels Adaine dart to the edge of the spells range, full dash; not enough time to cast dispel magic, but enough to get to an area where she’s capable of casting it. The unknown tiefling goes next, and any doubt that maybe he’s just some old rival of Fabian’s specifically is dismissed when he gestures the demons to keep Fabian busy and vaults onto the stage, pulling out a sword as he goes. He slices, on his way up, at Gorgug – hits, and he isn’t raging yet so it’s a bad one, straight across the calf – and then down again as he lands, the butt of his sword bonking Gorgug on the head in a way that would be comical if it weren’t so scary.

Gorgug should be next, but he doesn’t move. It takes a moment for Fig to realize that he’s dazed, from the sword. Stunned. Somehow, someway, before he can rage, before he can make himself safe. And the tiefling is gearing up for another hit.

Out of character, combat is a long process, between sorting out turn order and actions and bonus actions and crazy ideas and saving throws and all sorts of wild fancy bullshit, especially at higher levels. But in-character? A round is six seconds. Adaine running, Gorgug stunned, the sound of gunshots, the burning silence – it is all instantaneous, reflexive. Fig is not running on logic, on how getting to where she can make spells is the smart move. She is running on instinct. And instinct is telling her that Gorgug is about to get fucked up.

Well, fuck it, it’s not like she can do anything else. Fig gears up and rolls to grapple.

He’s not expecting it, her throwing herself at him, and maybe that’s why her crazy bloodrush-tackle maneuver succeeds, sending them both toppling off the stage and onto the floor with a thud. Fig winces at her own fall damage – she only has the one attack, she can’t do anything else, just hold him there – the others are taking their turns, fast, it is so fast in combat, six seconds –

There is a muted curse, almost like through a sieve. The _silence_ spell stays up.

The tiefling wrestles out of her grasp, rolling them over so he is pinning her. It occurs to Fig that this was a bad idea, and she has much less health than Gorgug does, but it’s too late for that. He gets a bad roll, and she manages to lock his sword with the frame of her guitar – it makes a terrible sort of screeching noise as it connects – and then he gets a third attack, what the fuck, and this one hits, drives straight through her shoulder, and she’d be shrieking in pain if she could make any fucking noise right now –

It’s too fucking quiet, she can’t think – 

She rolls them back over again, but she doesn’t quite manage to break the grapple, just sends the two of them rolling over the floor, like they’re falling down a hill together or something. She manages a wink in Adaine’s direction as she rolls – she can hear a gunshot and then silence, as Riz enters the range of the spell, can see in her peripheral movement and demons – 

The sound comes back all at once, a flood of relief, Adaine’s eyes glowing blue with her portent. The moment she can, Fig puts her hand on the guy’s face and yells, “BITCH.”

“I AM NOT A BITCH,” the tiefling yells back, still tussling with her. It’s his turn again before it’s hers, and he hasn’t taken any goddamn damage, the others are too caught up fucking up this demon and dispelling this magic. He stabs down and hits – three times in a row, right through the stomach, so hard that she’s wheezing through it, fucked up and wild.

“I said – “ She takes his face again, and focuses, a dog, a fucking stupid chihuahua, “ – _BITCH.”_

Adaine’s eyes flash blue again as she trades a portent for his saving throw, and when Fig pulls back from the polymorph, what is left on her chest is an angry, yipping dog.

“GET FUCKED,” Fig shouts, laying back down, bleeding profusely. Like a CHAMP. “Get fucked up, get wrecked, god fucking dammit, I’m going to sleep right now.”

Which is a poor choice, because it means she stays prone, and conveniently the demons are still both left. Fig rolls out of the way of one but takes another, sharp, to her shoulder, with a shout of pain. God, why does she always get so fucked up in fights? She’s a bard, she’s supposed to be, like, in the back, being squishy on her own and shit, this sucks.

The demon is reaching up to take another crack at her, and she’s pretty sure this is the end, that she’s gonna lose that last bit of hp she has and this dog is gonna turn back into a person and he’s gonna stab her super hard, when a rapier squelches, thick and fast, through it’s stomach. It falls over and dissipates into demonic energy, leaving Fabian, heaving, with his sword out.

There’s a moment where they just breathe. “…’bitch?’” Fabian manages, through gasps.

“Fuck you,” Fig says. “It was good. It was very funny.”

“Kristen, do you have any healing?” Adaine jogs over and, with a flick of her hands, casts a hold monster. The dog, which had been violently attempting to bite Fig’s nose off to get her down to 0, freezes in place, offering no resistance as Adaine picks him up and tucks him under an arm.

“No, sorry,” Kristen says, jogging up, her shirt torn, but Fig is already waving her off, healing herself with eyes shut and grit teeth. Kristen looks around at the mess that the Black Pit has been left in. “What the fuck happened?”

“RIZ,” Gorgug shouts, and when Fig stands up she can see over the other’s shoulders that Gorgug has scooped Riz up into a hug. Riz is wriggling in his grip, and for a moment actually seems to be taking traction as the post-battle exhaustion seeps into Gorgug’s muscles, his frenzied rage taking its toll. It’s a token resistance though, and Riz hugs back in the end, until Gorgug sets him back on his feet. “I missed you! It’s been months!”

“You too.” Riz is distracted – he’s got his gun out, and he’s looking around, lips pursed, analyzing the scene with his Detective Face. “Glad you’re okay. What happened?”

“We were getting ready backstage and we heard something,” Gorgug says. He’s stained in demon blood and worse for wear than he usually is, with the hits he took pre-rage, but he’s grinning despite himself, glancing between all of his friends with a sort of inescapable beam of hope and excitement. “Fabian was fighting a dude when we came out.”

Riz whirls. The moment he and Fabian make eye contact, the entire room goes tense and still, like waiting for a fight.

Yeah, fuck that, Fig doesn’t care enough about that drama. “Way to greet your fucking sister,” Fig gripes, stumbling forward. She’s healed a bit, but she’s still hurt, and there’s a moment when Riz’s methodical analysis shifts to something like concern as she limps forward, grinning.

“I’m a cruel and unusual man.” Riz drops the gun, finally – Fig gets a sense he’s disappointed there’s nothing left for him to shoot – and steps forward, accepting Fig’s one-armed embrace as he flicks the safety on. “Where’s your boyfriend?”

“Left him.”

“Fuck yeah.” Riz squeezes her arm and lets it drop. “Not to say I told you so – “

“Oh my god, I almost died, can you wait like ten minutes to razz me,” Fig grumbles, and Riz’s mouth twitches, despite himself. “How did you know shit was going down? I thought you couldn’t make it.”

Riz’s eyes dart to Fabian again, and the chihuahua, and back. “I couldn’t,” he says, voice carefully flat. He looks at Fabian with a shuttered expression, his whole being going rigid and eyes narrowed. “Tell me how the fight started.”

Fabian’s voice is careful and measured and makes Fig irrationally irritated. She squeezes Riz’s shoulder in support and feels him push, just a little, into her grip. “I was at the bar,” he says. “I was, uh – “ he coughs into his sleeve. “Doing. Cool things.”

“What were you doing,” Riz says. His voice is cold, even for Riz post-battle.

Fabian grimaces. “…I was asking the bartender to show me how his crystal works,” he mutters, not looking anyone in the eye. “It’s all, fucking, new, and shit, since I left, it’s all apps now, and I couldn’t figure out how to find my contacts so I could text Adaine, it’s stupid, okay, it’s just – “

“You’re like a grandpa,” Gorgug says.

“I am not,” Fabian splutters, but Riz clears his throat and the humor falls again. Fabian manages to look sheepish. Fig makes a mental note to make fun of him for this later, if he isn’t secretly evil. “The – man – sat at the bar next to me, and asked me if I’d seen the Hangman lately. I told him no, and he laughed, and pulled out the sword. So I – I tried to grab him, to get him away from the crowd of people, and he.” Fabian gestures to the cut on his face. “He pulled out this – whistle thing, and the whole room fell silent, and then you all got here.”

“The Hangman?” Adaine says, frowning.

Fabian shrugs helplessly. Riz stares at him, unmoved. “You know if you’re lying to me, there were witnesses,” he says, and his voice is even but still cutting, and his eyes have not moved from Fabian’s face.

“I’m not lying,” Fabian says, his voice quiet. “But yes, I know.”

Yikes. Fig is starting to think maybe this is gonna end in like a sexual tension thing. Which would be fair, but like, she really doesn’t wanna be here for it.

“You didn’t answer earlier, Riz,” Adaine says, apparently on the same track as Fig. Kristen has sauntered over to wrap an arm around Fig’s, to lean on her shoulder, and Fig smiles, patting her clumsily with a hand. This isn’t really how she wanted to greet most of her friends after months on tour, but it’s nice to have them again, nonetheless. “How did you know to be here?”

There is a pause. Riz reaches into his pocket, digs out his crystal, and turns it so that the group can see the image. The Riz on the screen of the crystal is broken, distorted, at odd angles, like the nightmare Riz everyone told Fig about after spring break sophomore year, the one that opened its mouth and ate their dreams. The Riz in real life is straight-faced and impassive, and his fingers are clenched tight on the phone.

“Oh,” Adaine says after a moment, voice strangled.

Riz turns the screen back off and pushes his crystal back into one of his many, many overlarge coat pockets, folding covers over them. “That was sent to me from an unknown number alongside a message,” he says, and his voice has that cadence to it, when he’s excited by a mystery, but something else underneath, something scared and angry. “It said to hurry to the Black Pit.”

There’s a moment of silence. Then Fig grins and slaps Riz on the back.

“Oh come on,” she says, when Riz blinks up at her, owlish. “You know what this means.”

Riz stares for another long moment. “…no?”

Fig grins and pulls him into a hug. Like with Gorgug, Riz puts up a token resistance, but it doesn’t take long until he is relaxing in her grip, patting her on the back with bemusement. “Team’s back together? Fights happening? Mysteries abounding?” Fig sets him down for a dramatic flourish and gives the team her best I’m-A-Rockstar smile. “We're getting the adventuring party back together, motherfuckers!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter titled after the song by tyler the creator. hopefully will be updating a bit more frequently now that the liveshow is happening, stay tuned to find out! clinging to that 'canon compliant' tag until i cant anymore, pray for me y'all


	7. Long Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fabian and Kristen reveal some hidden truths. Fig starts some shenanigans. Riz gets an excuse to bring out the red string.

“Conspiracy board, conspiracy board, conspiracy board, conspiracy board – “

“What are you all yelling about?” Riz says, dragging the conspiracy board through the door. Fig and Kristen’s chanting dissolves into raucous applause. Adaine, who has rested her forehead against Gorgug’s shoulder, groans, and Gorgug pats her back consolingly.

Leaning on the wall, one of Fig’s shitty high school band posters peeling above him, Fabian hides a smile. It’s been a long time since he’s been to the haunted mansion that Jawbone still maintains. It’s a weird sensation, like Fabian is one of the ghosts that still wander its halls, clinging to a world that has not waited for him. The weird piano thing, the misplaced sofa, the senior pictures are all still here, but dust and time has changed them, even just in keeping them the same.

He’s lucky that they let him be a part of this at all. He wasn’t allowed to help interrogate Tiefling Silence Asshole (though to be fair, none of them were allowed to help interrogate Tiefling Silence Asshole, because the moment they brought him back to the station Sklonda had taken the case from them, giving Riz murderous glances all the way). And Fabian knows he’s not really wanted here. They’d strategically sat so that he and Riz were on opposite sides of the room. When Riz walks in, the room devolves into stiff silence for a moment before they remember to act normal.

Not that Fabian isn’t welcome, not exactly. Kristen keeps looking over at him with this expression like she can’t believe he’s real, Gorgug is happily including him without reserve, and when Adaine spouts facts her eyes seek him automatically for confirmation. Even Fig, who has interacted with him at the barest level of politeness required, throws some old snipes his way about how hot his mom is. Olive branches are being passed all around. Things are – different. Difficult, maybe, but still reparable.

But not for Riz. And Fabian – Fabian wants things to be reparable with Riz. More than he realized he could want a thing, an intensity of emotion that is usually reserved for clawing mortality. He can’t put his finger on why, exactly, but he knows it is the same reason that seeing the picture Riz has pasted to the board of his own dead body makes Fabian want to throw up, the same reason that when he thought of what Riz would do every time he made a call at sea the fondness was bittersweet, like saltwater in his mouth. Fabian is going to put up with all of this, and hold his tongue, and sit at the edge and be good, because for reasons Fabian can’t explain, the idea of doing anything else is physically painful.

Fabian is also sitting on his own because he is trying to review the list of pop culture from the last six years that Adaine forwarded him so that he’d know what Fig is talking about. But that is less cool sounding. Mostly, he’s here for dramatic reasons. 

The manor doesn’t really have a place for Riz’s conspiracy board or its supplies – as far as Fabian can tell, the conspiring is usually done at Riz’s apartment or office, and he had not wanted Fabian to see those, which, uh, fair. (Actually, Riz had not wanted Fabian to be a part of the conspiring at all. And that’s also kind of fair. On the one hand, Fabian does have information that is unique to him, and it’s gonna be valuable to the case. On the other hand. Seems a little stupid to let an active suspect in a case provide feedback on its direction. 

Actually Fabian doesn’t know if his information will be relevant to the case. What case are they actually talking about? The Aelwen thing or the Riz’s death thing? Or a third, independent thing? Or are they all connected things in the grand scheme of a bigger Thing? That sounds like adventuring. Everything connects in stupid ways when you’re an adventurer.

God, Fabian misses being on the fucking ocean.) 

Riz had allowed Fabian to attend on two conditions. The first was that they meet somewhere that was “not full of personal, stealable secrets,” as if Riz does not have every file and cabinet in his possession trapped so many ways that he has broken his own bones several times. And the second was that Fabian is not allowed to speak unless directly asked to. Theoretically it’s sound, because that way he can’t sway the case, but practically Fabian is pretty sure it’s a spite thing. He’s trying not to sulk about it. (He’s sulking about it.) 

“So,” Riz says, brushing his hands off on his pants. He’s taken off the overcoat, for the first time since Fabian’s gotten back. It’s strange, seeing him out of a suit. Not that Fabian hasn’t seen Riz in a t-shirt before, obviously, but all of the big memories that he dwelt over fondly with beer in hand were from freshman year, or sophomore, when Adaine and Fig had aggressively asked for Fabian’s credit card and went ‘all out.’ In Fabian’s pirate mind, Riz was always fresh-pressed and vested and and holding coffee, not in a baggy hoodie with a logo from some detective show and holding coffee. He’s - he doesn’t so much look casual as he looks exhausted, like he didn’t have the energy to care to do his usual clothes. The hoodie is a good look on him. The exhaustion is not. “To start off - “ 

Gorgug raises a hand. Riz sighs. “Yes?” 

“Should we check if Gorthalax is in a ruby?” Gorgug says. “Just to get it out of the way before we get started.” 

“What makes you think Gorthalax is in a ruby?” Riz says. 

“Gorthalax is always in a ruby when shit goes down,” Gorgug says. Next to him, Kristen nods. 

Riz pinches the bridge of his nose. Something in Fabian settles at the familiar sight of his frustrated attempts to wrangle the chaos. “After this, we can check to make sure Gorthalax has not been trapped in a ruby. Again,” Riz says. “Anything else before we start?” 

“Can we order pizza?” Kristen says. 

“We can order pizza on the way to check on Gorthalax. Anything else?” 

“I love you,” Fig says, at the same time Adaine says, “Your hair looks lovely today.” 

Riz takes a deep breath. Fabian tries not to grin. 

“Okay,” Riz says, gesturing wildly to the board. “So: the case at hand.” 

“What case are we actually talking about?” Adaine says. She is, at least, paying attention, a notepad in hand, Boggy on the shoulder. He's in frog form again, because even though Adaine’s changed his form many a time as needed, Boggy the Froggy is always his most true, adorable state of being. “Tracking down Aelwen, or the Black Pit? Or your - “ She makes an aborted gesture to his chest. 

“All of them.” Riz turns and points with the capped end of a black marker at the polaroid in the middle of the board: a picture of Riz’s crystal. Fabian is not sure why he did not take a screenshot of the texts instead. This seems like an unnecessary picture to have. “Last night, I received a text from the attacker at the Black Pit. It contained with it” - he traces a red string upwards - “this image, of a flyer, with the number 2 over Gorgug’s name, and” - another red string, connected in a triangle - “this image, of my body when I died at the end of high school.” 

“Dude, you kept the picture?” Fig leans forward to look closer. “That’s so morbid.” 

“It’s evidence.” Riz’s voice is even and unaffected. 

“It’s creepy, man,” Kristen says. “That’s, like – eugh. Like I’ve died more times and I still think it’s weird.” 

“Okay, well, no one asked, so anyway.” Riz flails his arm between the next photos. “So this guy somehow knew about the Hangman, enough that he knew about its connection to Fabian, who is also the prime suspect in my murder.” Riz pulls the marker in a tremendous loop to emphasize where string has connected both pieces of evidence to Fabian’s picture. “Assuming that Fabian is lying, they’re accomplices. Assuming that Fabian is telling the truth – uh, something else. That one’s weirder. I don’t know what that one could be.” 

“Accomplices with Aelwen,” Adaine offers, and that muted relief that Fabian can’t express punches him again, the same as when she said he was innocent. “He did ostensibly betray her and is planning to aid in her capture. It makes sense to want to take him out of the picture.” 

“That doesn’t explain the Hangman, though,” Fig says, and then gasps. “Ooh, oh, he had demons with him, and the Hangman’s a demon – maybe it’s a demon thing? The ones we fought were from the Nine Hells, right? Maybe some shit’s going down there?” 

“Gorthalax is definitely in a ruby,” Gorgug concludes mournfully. 

“So maybe accomplices with Aelwen,” Riz says, and scribbles an abbreviation on the board next to a poorly drawn image of the tiefling, which is also connected to Fabian’s picture and the crystal. There is so much red string on this board. Fabian is very glad he is seeing it instead of having it described to him in a narrative format, because that would get confusing very quickly. “Or maybe another demon thing. Or both. Making a deal with a demon wouldn’t be past her, right?” 

“Very little would be,” Adaine says without expression, and Fabian has to force himself to clamp down on his tongue to keep from protesting. 

“Okay, so,” Riz says, “at the same time as all this - “ he points his marker at a picture of a younger aasimar man, unconnected to the photos he’s addressed thus far. It takes Fabian a moment to recognize him as the head of the theater department, from way back when Hargis had that thing. “ - Mr. Pepper went missing. And in searching the crime scene, we found - “ red string to two more pictures, one again shitty drawings rather than actual photos - “Kalvaxus’ cricket bat and the wand of ray of frost that Adaine produced in the battle with him.” 

“Oh, shit, I forgot I had that.” Kristen pulls the bat off her back, squinting at it. “Yo, Adaine, can you do an identify? I wanna know if I can tank now.” 

“Hand it over, I’ll cast the ritual while we’re talking.” Kristen passes the bat over Gorgug’s lap into Adaine’s grabby hands. She immediately sets to work tracing runes in a circle around it on the floor. 

“Why’s the Mr. Pepper thing connected to everything else?” Gorgug frowns, siting back up. 

Riz raises the marker in a triumphant pose, ears wiggling in that way they do when he’s very excited. “Because,” he points at the crystal again, “this text was sent from an unknown number. I did some digging last night, and it turns out that number,” he traces to another image of a different tiefling, a greaser, long-dead, “is Johnny Spells’ old burner phone. Who was working to help Kalvaxus,” a string, “and originally owned the Hangman,” a string, “and was also connected to Hell through Gorthalax, who, actually now that I’m thinking about it, yeah, there’s a pretty good chance he’s in a ruby right now, this is a lot of hell stuff.” He sets his marker down on the table with the resonant thud of a man triumphant. 

“So, uh, what does that mean?” Gorgug says. 

A short pause. “I have no idea,” Riz says. “But it sure isn’t a coincidence. Any other evidence to put on the table? Not from Fabian.” 

“The vision I told you about,” Adaine says, immediately. She doesn’t look up from the spell, but Adaine has long since learned the balance between team tomfoolery and actual work. “I had it right before you died, and I had it right before Fabian came back. It was – well, it was a bunch of garbage cryptic bullshit, but it was drawing a comparison of some sort, and I think. I don’t know for sure, but again, cryptic bullshit. But I think it was telling me that Aelwen had something to do with your death.” 

“What was the actual vision?” Fig says. “Like, in full? ‘Cause maybe it could be interpreted in different ways.” 

“It was - “ Adaine squints, focuses for a moment, eyes flashing as she makes some complicated hand motion before she tunes back in. “There was one part of it where Fabian – Fabian now, not as a teenager – was holding Riz, who was,” a glance up, “unconscious, I think. And one part of it where I was on a ship, and I was pointing Riz’s gun at Aelwen. And the vision said that things aren’t what they seem, and I should forgive.” She shrugs, half-helpless. “The part about Aelwen being the murderer is conjecture, perhaps, but there’s a definitive connection.” 

“Yeah.” Riz draws a square and writes ‘Aelwen vision’ inside of it before pinning red string between it, the image of his dead body, and the image of Fabian. Which uh. Fabian just hates this image for so many reasons. It is bad in so many ways. Truly. “Anything else?”

“We don’t have enough information.” Adaine gestures, widely, to Fabian. “Think it’s time for some firsthand account?”

Riz meets Fabian’s eyes. Every time, it feels like the first time since Fabian got back – gut-wrenching, painful, like picking up broken glass. After a long moment, Riz sighs. “Alright.” He shakes his head as he turns back to his board. “Fabian, you can talk, if you have evidence.”

Hmm. Well. This is…this is going to require a delicate hand. “Is this…on the record?” Fabian says, hesitant, eyes darting across his high school friends. He settles, eventually, on Gorgug’s encouraging smile.

“Why?” Fabian knows Adaine is frowning before he even looks at her.

“Because – I may have fudged some details about my return, and Aelwen’s involvement, for reasons of my own.” Oh god this is not a delicate hand. Why is Fabian’s hand not more delicate. He used to be so good at this. How has being on the sea removed all of his social subtleties.

Riz’s eyes are narrowed. “Vague and suspicious,” he notes, not without a dry humor to it. “But no. This isn’t on the record.”

Fabian lets out a breath. “So Aelwen didn’t – actually, actively betray me,” he says, a little hurried, because now that he’s saying it he’s worried he’ll psyche himself out and stop himself and that would be bad when he is trying to establish trust. “She was – I overheard her, in the cabin, making a deal. With. A demon. And I know, when we were in high school, she had the Kalvaxus situation, so I did a little digging, and she, um, is involved, in. I don’t know the details, but something. Big. So I, you know, high-tailed it.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Riz’s fingers are tight on his marker. “You just conveniently were lying before, and have a story that paints you in the best light. Wild.”

“It does match what we have so far,” Adaine says, voice raised in her excitement. “But – “ and she gives Fabian an apologetic glance – “I agree that, without knowing for sure that he’s telling the truth, it’s hard to say – “

“OH,” Fig says, and they all turn to her as she slaps her hand to her forehead. “We’re IDIOTS.”

“…what?” Adaine blinks.

Fig gestures wildly in Kristen’s direction. “We – there is a spell called Zone of Truth that is literally made to make people tell the truth. We’ve just, had it, this whole time, and haven’t used it.”

“…OH,” Adaine says. Fabian can see everyone’s eyes light up at the same time, the same weight from his heart being slowly lifted off theirs, of knowing for sure, of being believed. “We’re idiots.”

“RIGHT,” Fig says.

“Uh,” Kristen coughs, before the cacophony of excitement can truly start up, “I don’t actually have that spell prepared, so, um – “

“You can re-prepare it after a long rest, right?” Adaine frowns. “So we can just do it tomorrow morning. That’s no problem. We can wait one day.”

There are murmurs of agreement, but Kristen is picking at the stray fabric of her jeans. “Kristen?” Adaine frowns at her. “What’s wrong?”

Kristen has pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, clinging like she can hold herself together. Her smile is – not bitter, exactly. But something too close to it for Kristen. “Cat’s out of the bag, huh,” she says, more to herself than anyone else. Gorgug rests a hand on her shoulder and her smile softens when she looks to him. She takes a deep breath.

“I can’t. Cleric. Anymore,” Kristen says, determinedly staring at the carpet on the floor, hair falling forward to obscure part of her face. “I can’t cast magic. Or talk to Yes?. It’s, uh – it’s gone. Completely.”

It takes a moment for Fabian to absorb this so he can realize that everyone else is also absorbing it. Recent development, then. “How long ago?” he pipes up, because he figures if anything gives him rights to talk like a normal person, this is probably it.

“Month. Maybe two. I don’t know.” Kristen pulls a little closer on herself. Fabian can see it clicking in the other’s head; realization slides over Adaine hardest, lips pursed and eyes sad.

“Is, uh,” Adaine says, “is that why you and Tracker - ?”

“Yes. I mean – no. Kind of?” Kristen grimaces, twisting her fingers together and apart, together and apart. “It’s complicated. Yes, but not – not totally. It’s not all of it.”

Another pause. And then, finally, most importantly – “Why?” Fig says.

The bitterness is back when Kristen laughs, shaking on in herself, like if she pulls tight enough she can fold herself down, like a tent that’s been taken apart and packed away until it’s needed again. “I don’t know, man,” she says, still smiling, still without joy. “Because I’m a fuck up who doesn’t know what I believe? Maybe God got sick of me floundering around trying to figure out what’s good and what’s not? Who knows.”

There’s an explosion of noise as the group refutes it – _that’s not true_ and _you aren’t a fuck up_ and _you made it, it wouldn’t abandon you_ – but Kristen just covers her ears and grits her teeth. “This is why – I don’t want to talk about it,” she snaps, and Gorgug lets his hand drop from her shoulder where she swats it away. “Just. That’s how it is, okay? I can’t cast and that’s how it is. Just – I’m dealing with it. I’ve got it.”

“We trust you,” Fig says, “but if you need help, or want to talk – “

“I know. I got it.” Kristen takes a deep breath. “I know you’re trying to help, and I, I do appreciate it, but. I don’t want to talk about it. Right now.” She puts up her hands in a falsely casual shrug, like she can push the whole thing behind her and ignore it there. “The point is – no Zone of Truth from me. Don’t, uh, don’t have the juice.”

Adaine is still watching her, concern written over her mouth, but her hand is on her pencil again, tap-tap against the floor. “Well,” she says, hesitant to press on but unwilling to let a lead drop. “Luckily, we know someone else who can cast it.”

* * *

“How can you cast Zone of Truth?” Riz demands. “Do you have a level in cleric?”

“It’s a paladin thing.” The half-elf leading them through the police station looks bemused. Watching Riz try to keep up with her longer legs is almost funny, with how undignified he jogs. Fabian makes a note of it. “It’s not, like, a secret. Every paladin can.”

“I don’t know jack shit about paladins.”

“That is such a big blind spot. How have you not addressed this before.”

“Fuck you.”

“Harsh words, boss.” The woman stops, pulling open a door; Fabian glances over her shoulder to see a long mirror making up one wall, a few chairs scattered around, a microphone with a button on it connected to the wall just next to the glass. “Uh, anyone without clearance is not actually technically allowed in an interrogation room if they aren’t a suspect. But I’m pretty sure there’s nothing about them listening behind the glass? So if everyone but Riz and Mr. Seacaster could hang out here to listen, that’d be great. Adaine, you, uh, you know, how the mic works, right? You can show them?”

“Yes, thank you very much. I’ll make sure no one breaks anything.” Adaine files in first, and for the most part they go in a line, except – 

“Oh this is so sweet of you,” Fig says, wrapping a hand around the half-elf’s bicep where she’s pulled her sleeves up. “Thank you so much. I’m Fig. Fig Faeth. The Fig Faeth. I’m a rockstar.”

Fabian can see Riz banging his head against the wall behind them. The half-elf, for her part, looks amused. “It’s my literal job,” she says, deadpan. “I have to be nice to you. Legally speaking.”

“Legally speaking, haha, that’s sooo funny.” Fig twirls a bang in her finger. In the other room, Kristen has barely muffled her giggling. “So what’s your name?”

“Fiona,” Fiona says, eyebrows slowly rising.

Gorgug pops his head out of the door. “Are you gonna fuck another police officer?” he says, genuine. “’Cause I can go ahead and throw your phone in the river now, if you just want to skip ahead – “

“What,” Fiona says flatly.

Fig has completely abandoned her arm already. “I didn’t fuck the first one, I just wanted to get kisses in, and I didn’t even get that, so salt in the wound, man,” she snarks. Kristen’s giggles have morphed to full-blown chuckles, barely hidden where she has put her face fully in her arms.

“ANYWAY,” Riz says, pushing Fig into the room, looking extremely tired. The door swings shut behind her.

“Cool friends,” Fiona says, after a moment of silently grinning at him.

“Not a word.” Riz scowls at her. He looks at Fabian and straightens up, brushing imagined dust off his shoulder before he marches to the next door down, Fiona and Fabian following behind him. It’s the same interrogation room as before, and Fabian feels an uncomfortable sense of déjà vu as he sits. Déjà vu and instinctive boredom. At least his hands aren’t tied this time.

Fiona does not actually sit down in one of the interrogator chairs; instead, she leans up against the glass, carefully angled to be about fifteen feet away. Fabian suspects that it’s so he does not feel left out in the zone of truthing. It’s a weirdly nice gesture. He’s not sure how to feel about it. “So,” Fiona says, as Riz pulls his own chair out with a loud screech, “I’m gonna cast this. You’re gonna get a save, but you can choose to fail. And, you know, if you don’t choose to fail, I’ll know. So like. Choose to fail.” Then she closes her eyes, touches a finger to her overlarge earring, crafting a circle with her hand, and glows.

As soon as Fabian can feel the spell push over him, the erasure of his inhibitions and deceptions, Kristen presses the mic button and says, “Who does everyone think is the hottest person in this group, GO.”

“Fabian,” says everyone at the same time, except Fabian, who says “Me,” and Adaine, who says, “Seriously?!”

“Yes, seriously.” Kristen doesn’t need to be pressing the button so that they can hear this on Fabian’s side of the room, but she’s either forgotten or she wants everyone to know. “What, is there a secret you’re keeping? Do you think I’m hot? Adaine, like, I’m flattered – “

“This is a stupid question. That is verifiable fact, because I am saying it while I’m in the zone of truth. This is stupid.”

“Kristen, who do you think is the hottest in the group?” Gorgug says, voice all feigned innocence.

“Fig, obviously.” Fig lets out a whoop. “But I will not stand by and let the truth go unheard, the people deserve to KNOW – “

Fabian suspects that Kristen is cut off not because the conversation is over, but because Adaine has wrested her hand away from the button and is now attempting to push her into submission. Considering the strength disparity, it is undoubtedly going poorly for her. For a moment Fabian catches Riz’s eye and sees the same fond mirth reflected back at him, a secret, shared love for their ridiculous friends – and then they both remember Riz is mad and look away.

“Okay.” Riz takes a deep breath to steel himself. “Okay. I won’t record any of this. So. Speak freely. But. I reserve the right to use anything you say in any investigation. Okay?”

“Okay.” It has been several years since Fabian has felt anxious about something. He doesn’t even know why. He wasn’t lying. He has nothing to hide. But he is still – gut crawling, eyes on the table, stomach tying in knots when he can’t keep himself from glancing up to match Riz’s gaze.

Most people, when they’re nervous, won’t look you in the eye, but Riz is – or was, when Fabian knew him – the opposite. When Riz is interrogating someone, he looks them dead-on, with a kind of intensity like if he’s trying to push all the nerves on you instead. It usually works. “Fabian,” Riz says, and his voice is distant but it is also delicate, it is fragile. “Did you kill me?”

“No,” Fabian says immediately, with a kind of breathless intensity that he doesn't mean to escape him.

“Did you know that I would be killed when you left?”

“No. I – I would never. I couldn’t.”

Fabian expects Riz to be relieved, with the knowledge that Fabian didn’t kill him, but instead he’s gone all shuttered and tight and cards-to-chest. “If you didn’t kill me, then – “ Riz clears his throat when it breaks. “Then why did you leave, like that? Why did you cut off contact?”

A pause turns into a silence. It stretches. Riz narrows his eyes. “Fabian,” he starts, voice cutting –

“It’s not – bad,” Fabian snaps. He’s looking at the ceiling, fidgeting, a little, because this is the sort of thing that is a grand declaration in the heat of battle, not a quiet conversation in a sterile room. He doesn’t know how to say things, when he doesn’t have the excuse of danger and this-could-be-the-last-chance-I-have-to-say-it as a preface to his sincerity. He doesn’t know how to just – just say things. “It’s. It just sounds stupid. Out loud. But it’s not actually stupid, it just sounds stupid.”

Riz’s voice has lost its force again. “Take your time.”

Fabian gesticulates – no, that’s wrong; he aborts the hand movement halfway for another one, then again, before he decides that, you know what, everyone’s waiting on him, fuck it. “You were – you didn’t want to go,” he says, finally, with frustrated open gestures of his palms. Riz stares. “You wanted to stay here. I didn’t – I couldn’t just drag you out to make you miserable because you lost one fight, that’s terrible, I’d be a terrible friend. Party member. Whatever.”

Riz doesn’t say anything, just keeps staring, unblinking and owlish, so Fabian plows right along, leg bouncing all the way. “You were – I mean, you wanted to be a detective, obviously, that was your whole thing. I couldn’t really drag you away from that. You loved it. You – love it, I presume, since you’re still doing it. I wasn’t going to make you leave your, your family and everyone you loved, not really, you would’ve been miserable, and that would make working with you a pain, all of the time.”

“Wait.” Riz squints at him. For a moment, Fabian thinks he gets it, and then he’s shaking his head, ears flapping with the strength of it, like he’s shaking something off. “Wait wait wait. What? Why – if you just thought I wanted to stay here, why didn’t you just say that? Why’d you throw away your phone?”

“Because I would’ve stayed if I hadn’t!” Fabian makes a frustrated groan. It’s not that hard, honestly, his friends are so slow. “I would’ve – kept coming back to visit, and eventually I would’ve come back for good. You can’t just be a pirate and also be best friends with a cop. I would’ve – it would’ve been a conflict of interests, and you were very convincing, and I was close to staying already. It’s like cutting off a limb, right? It’s better to cauterize it right away then to let it bleed out. I would’ve been – I would’ve always been thinking about home, and thinking about coming home, when I was supposed to be thinking about pirating.”

“So if – if you didn’t want to leave,” Riz says, and his eyebrows are pinched and his mouth sucked in with what’s closer to impatience than anger, that look he used to get when a clue forced him to reassess an entire case, like he just bit into something especially sour. “And if you wanted to come back after you left. Why didn’t you just, like. Stay? Why’d you go in the first place?”

Fabian throws up his hands in exasperation. “Because that’s the whole point of it. The, the whole – writing my name on the face of the world with my heroic deeds, make the world remember your name, et cetera, that’s the whole thing! That’s what being alive is about. The – the glory, the legacy, that’s how you live forever. I had to.”

There’s a long silence where Riz just sits and stares at him. Riz is supposed to be one of the smart ones, he should get it, and Fabian is about to reword it again when Riz says, “Fabian, were you – happy? At sea?”

Fabian blinks. “I don’t see how that’s relevant to the case.” His voice is maybe a little stiff, but he’s careful not to let it edge into defensive, because he’s not. He’s not defensive. He could say ‘yes,’ if he wants, and the zone of truth wouldn’t stop him. It wouldn’t. He was happy. Often. Sometimes. As often as a person can ask to be happy.

Riz opens his mouth – closes it. His expression is – distant. Distant, but delicate.

“Okay,” he says, and Fabian’s shoulders sag. “I – “ Riz swallows, and after a moment, he smiles, small, shaky, but actually smiles, and something in Fabian’s heart cracks. “I believe you.”

Fabian lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Now that the nerves have passed he can’t stop the beaming smile on his face – not fixed, but a step closer. Reparable. Things are starting to look reparable.

Adaine’s voice passes through the mic into the room, clear as anything. “Why did you say Aelwen betrayed you?” she says, flat. Fabian watches Riz stiffen, the light flickering as he goes back into work mode, back into investigation.

Well, cat’s out of the bag. “Solace has the, uh, national charter,” Fabian says, careful in his wording. “And piracy is – is easier to forgive than demon deals. So, in regards to Aelwen, specifically – “

Riz’s face flutters with realization, but Adaine over the mic has only stone cold silence. “You don’t want to stop her,” Riz says, cocking his head to the side, smile growing, delight at a mystery slowly revealing itself.

Even in the coldness of Adaine’s silence, Fabian can’t keep the returning smile off his face. “I don’t,” he says, only half-hesitant. “I want to bring her home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from long time by chance the rapper. i know i said i'd try a more constant update schedule and then stuck with the exact same schedule, so sorry abt that yall! ive decided what i really need is a short break, so im gonna try to power through to the next riz-perspective chapter, and then im gonna take a little time off. for now, no changes!
> 
> feel free to drop in @riz-gukgak on tumblr to see my dumb extra ramblings, amongst other things!


	8. It's Thursday, January 12th

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kristen finds some comfort. Riz hits a roadblock. Fig makes a confession

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning in this chapter for discussion of drug usage to the point of constituting self-harm.

“How do you know the Hangman?”

The tiefling from the nightclub – older, haggard, gaunt, but haughty still, in a way that kind of makes Kristen want to burst through the glass and punch him in the face. “Drinking buddies,” he says, cheerfully. “Mean poker face, that motorcycle. Makes sense, I guess. Hard to have expressions when you’re a car.”

Kristen can hear Sklonda’s frustrated sigh through the glass, cracking her neck quietly. Riz shows no signs of wearing down, still leaned forward, staring intently at the suspect chained in front of him. “Don’t lie to me,” he says primly. “How do you know the Hangman?”

“Extended family. All demons are related to each other, if you go far enough back. We get together on the solstice for reunions. Fun time.”

“I said, don’t lie to me.”

Fiona, who has been exiled behind the glass as Kristen’s chaperone when the tiefling beat her save on Zone of Truth, leans over. “Gotta ask,” she says, voice low, “has bossman always been this one-track, or…?”

“Yes,” Kristen says immediately. She doesn’t really need to be here – she certainly isn’t adding anything to the interrogation itself – but Adaine had cornered her that morning to tell her that Kristen was going to have to leave the house and be a functioning human being one way or another today, and questioning suspects was a little less crowded than the checking on Gorthalax party. And she hasn’t been completely useless. When the first officer had accompanied Riz in there, when he had to be traded out for Sklonda, he’d come into the room and blown off a whole barrel of steam, and Kristen is fairly certain she sent him out in a better mood than he came in. “He’s gotten a lot nicer about it, at least. He used to be pretty brutal.”

“Yeah.” Fiona frowns. She’s fiddling with her earring – her holy symbol, Kristen figures, though it’s not for a god she recognizes, engraved in a script she can’t read. “I, uh, I got that vibe.”

Kristen is stopped from asking what she means by that, what chaos Riz has wrought upon some unfortunate criminal, when her crystal buzzes with an update from team Gorthalax Ruby. She fidgets as she pulls it out, careful to shield it, even though Fiona is politely pretending she can’t see either way.

_fig: GOOD NEWS AND BAD NEWS_  
_fig: good news is GORTHALAX IS NOT IN A RUBY_  
_kristen: waaaat_  
_fig: i KNOW what the fuck right_  
_fig: bad news_  
_fig: i cant get ahold of gilear and he was supposed to make dinner tomorrow :/_  
_kristen: gilear in a ruby??_  
_fig: holy shit kristen you fucking genius_  
_fig: let me ask adaine this is now priority one_

Kristen is shaking her head, smiling, as she sets her crystal down, but before she gets it all the way it buzzes again, faster than Fig should’ve been able to present a whacky theory.

_fig: btw_  
_fig: & absolutely no pressure do whats best for u_  
_fig: but i could use a girls night_  
_fig: & since tomorrow night has Conveniently Opened Up without gilear to make food_  
_fig: adaine already made plans w zayn_  
_fig: and its not a girls night if its just me. Its just a girl night_  
_fig: soooooooooo_

Kristen hesitates a moment before she moves, again, to set her crystal down. Not closed – just face down. She folds her arms on the long desk connected to the mirror, letting the conversation on the other side of the glass go on without her, muted and plot-vital and irrelevant. She looks, unfocused, at the wall across, cheap white paint, inside and outside herself all at once.

Then she glances over. “Can I ask you something?” she says.

Fiona blinks. Every movement makes her earring jingle against her jaw – the only feminine thing on her, dangly and intricate and beautiful. She lets her chair fall where she was leaning back. “Yeah, of course. What’s up?”

“I – “ Kristen pauses. Takes to looking at the wall again. “I’m a cleric, sort of. Or I used to be. I, uh, I can’t do any of that anymore.” She makes a motion like a wave and Fiona nods, matter of fact, just to show she’s listening. “And I kind of – I have a reputation for being, like. Kind of the team fuck-up? Just in terms of, like. Not knowing how to do the whole faith thing. Or believing, or whatever. So if you – if it’s not too personal, or whatever. How do you, like…do that? The whole godly thing?”

Fiona quirks her head to the side as she considers it. She’s still playing with her holy symbol, rolling one of the dangles back and forth between forefinger and thumb, and Kristen can’t stop watching. “Well,” she says, slowly. “It’s – I mean, disclaimer, it’s different for everyone. So, like, this is just me. But for me.” Fiona looks over at Kristen with a hesitant smile, not quite bitter and not quite sad. “I, uh…I’ve been in some bad places. Heard of the Mountains of Chaos?”

“In the north, right?” Kristen says. “With the giant wars?”

“Yeah. I was born there. I didn’t grow up in Solace, like you and Riz. I was – you know, on a warfront.” Fiona shrugs. “So I – I didn’t believe in a lot, for most of my life, you know? I also wasn’t very good at. ‘The whole faith thing.’” She quirks a smile at Kristen. “But for me, it’s like – faith in the gods, or whatever, is really just an extension of faith in yourself, right? Like – I believe that the gods want things to be good, because I believe people are generally trying to do good. And I believe people are generally trying to do good because I’m generally trying to do good. Does that make sense?”

“Not really, but I kinda get it.” Kristen perches her chin in her hand. “I guess it’s just, like. I don’t know. Why does that even matter, right? Do the gods even care about people?”

Fiona gives Kristen a surprised look. “Who does that matter?” she says, sincerely. “I care about people. The gods backing me up is just a bonus.”

Kristen snorts a little at that. “Humble,” she says, shaking her head when Fiona starts a stammered backtrack. “No, I – I get it. I just. It’s hard, sometimes. To care about people. When you feel like you’re the only one who cares. I guess. Does that make sense?”

It’s not quite hitting Kristen’s issue, but Fiona seems to get it, looking over with knowing eyes and holy symbols. “Well, that I can fix.” Fiona smiles. “I care. So, you know, don’t worry about being alone.”

Kristen stares. She likes Fiona – liked her immediately, in the way that she likes any visibly queer person that makes eye contact with her. She’s tall, and wears a suit, and has a strength score of 20, and has her hair shaved down into a mohawk, and she carries herself with this confidence, this build to her. Kristen likes Fiona just fine. But looking at her, across the table, right now.

For the first time in a while, Kristen is happy she got out of bed this morning.

A loud noise on the other side of the glass catches both of their attention; they whip their heads to see Sklonda, frustrated, standing, headed towards the door. Riz is still sitting, eye twitching, with the suspect, pretending to have that endless patience Kristen knows is fake. The guy looks smug. Fiona blows a breath out through her teeth. “Yikes. Tough crowd in there.”

“Yeah.” Kristen picks her crystal back up. “Hey – thanks. For talking.”

“Any time.” Fiona smiles, and Kristen believes her.

_kristen: hell yeah girls’ night_  
_fig: WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO_

* * *

Kristen rests her head against the dresser and smiles. “I needed this,” she says. “To get out.”

“I knew you did, girl,” Fig says, squinting at her cards. ‘Girls night’ had ended up being less of an outing and more of a sleepover-that-they-both-showered-before. Which is good, actually, because Kristen can’t remember the last time she showered or did laundry or generally took care of herself. She forgot how nice it is to feel clean.

Fig fumbles one-handed over her pocket. When she comes away with nothing, she pulls the hand up to her mouth instead, chewing hard on the nail of her thumb. In the late-night haze, with no expectations, watching Fig in all off her cut-off hard-rock glory, Kristen feels safe for the first time in months.

“Can I ask you a question?” Kristen says. “You don’t have to answer.”

“Shoot.” Fig sighs and finally submits to her fate, drawing two cards to add to her already-large hand.

“Why’d you quit smoking? And drinking, and all that?”

Fig pauses. Her gaze over the cards is wry, with heavy black eyeshadow, but it is also soft. “It’s kinda serious stuff,” she says, gingerly. “I’m okay talking about it, but I don’t want to unload on you if you don’t want to get into it tonight.”

Kristen considers for a moment. Fig has always, despite herself, been exceptionally open. If Kristen asks to talk about it later, she won’t take it personally. And it has been nice, to just sit back and ignore the real world, to just exist in a little bubble of Kristen-and-Fig for the evening. But it has always been cathartic to hear troubles completely unconnected to herself – and selfishly, Kristen thinks, her problems may feel better if she can just know someone else in the world is struggling a little, too. “Yeah,” she says, setting her card facedown. “If you’re willing to talk about it, then yeah, I’m down.”

Fig nods, pursing her lips. Her eyes flick down to her cards and she sighs, setting her own hand down in a pile. “I OD’d.”

The only sound for a moment is the hum as the heater kicks in, blowing the edges of the guest bed’s covers gentle over the carpet. “What?” Kristen says, just to make sure she heard right.

“I overdosed. Heroin. A while ago.” Fig smiles, halfway, just a quick quirk before it drops. “It was a close thing. Don’t get addicted to drugs, rehab’s a pain.”

“How – “ Kristen clears her throat. “How long ago, exactly?”

“Year-ish. Maybe half a year. I’d have to check records.” Now that she’s started to talk, Fig relaxes into it, by degrees, untensing her shoulders little by little. “I was on some other shit, and I was having a bad trip, so I misjudged how much I was taking. I didn’t do it, like – on purpose. I didn’t mean to.” Fig sighs and rubs her eyes, cutting a yawn off at the pass. “Gorgug kept telling me that I should be more careful. Got the last word on that one.”

“Wait, so you went on tour right after rehab?”

“That’s the music life, man. It’s what it is.” Fig is giving Kristen that smile that she used to give her in high school, when she would discover a band or a style of fashion or a stupid regular teenager thing, the one that makes Kristen feel stupid and naïve and very loved all at once. “But there’s lots of that shit going on behind stage. And Gorgug was, uh, pretty fucked up about finding me.” Fig gives Kristen a one-armed shrug and a sleepy smile. “So, yeah, I went cold turkey. That way he wouldn’t worry. I’m super responsible now.”

“Shit,” Kristen says, blinking sporadically. “I’ll, uh, I’ll print out your adulthood certificate.”

Fig laughs, and it is lovely, throaty and real, like Fig always is. The room returns to its quiet haze, neither of them willing to let the conversation go, neither of them quite sure how to keep it up. “You know,” Fig says finally, “It’s been good. The whole sober thing. And – breaking it off with Harmond. Weird, but it’s been good.”

“Has he texted you again?” Kristen asks, half-smiling.

“Oh, so fucking much. But I – I blocked his number. Finally.” Fig looks away, quiet. “It was really hard.”

“I’m really proud of you, man,” Kristen says, heartfelt.

Fig’s skin is naturally red enough that it’s hard to tell when she’s blushing, but she’s got other tells, when she shakes her hair into her face to hide the embarrassed smile that Kristen cherishes. “Thanks,” she mumbles. She clears her throat before she speaks again, a little louder. “But it’s – you know, I’ve been thinking about it a lot. Since the other day. With what Fabian said.”

Kristen does a quick mental scan for things Fabian has said about Fig doing drugs and having a shitty ex. “Uhhh,” she says when she comes up blank.

“About – how he went off chasing glory, because that was the point.” Fig waves a dismissive hand. “And Riz asked if he was happy, and he wouldn’t answer. Remember?”

“Oh. Yeah.”

“And I was thinking – when I was in high school, you know, the whole touring and playing bass and going to rehab and getting smashed was the dream. That was all I wanted. But.” Fig leans back against the headboard, cross-legged, blinking languid as she thinks. “I feel – better. Being home and adventuring again, and being clean, and trying to be. Good. At relationships. I feel better than I’ve felt in years doing the musician gig. And it’s, like – was I doing this the whole time because I really wanted to, or was it just, like, a carryover from when I was a teenager? Y’know?” Fig gestures widely. “Writing my name across the world of rock – does that make me happy?”

“I get it.” Kristen should be less willing to share this, should be curled up in a ball and refusing to talk about it, but she’s safe, safe and happy and here with Fig. “I, uh – not to make it about me, obviously. But being away from Tracker. It’s a lot of the same shit. Because like, she’s how I figured out I liked girls, y’know? We’ve been together literally for as long as I’ve been me. And it’s, like – who am I even now that she’s gone? How much of me was built around that relationship?”

“Right.” Fig nods. “So much shit is just – holdovers. And you don’t even realize it until you step away for a sec. Some of it’s still good, and worth keeping, but you gotta – you gotta reassess.”

“Yeah. It’s weird, ‘cause you can’t start over all the way, but it’s still all new.”

“Yeah.”

The silence descends once again. It’s good, Kristen realizes, to be here. To talk about it – not all the way, but a little, in bits and pieces. Looking at Fig, remembering this very room, shotgunning in senior year and giggling over the forbidden nature of it, and looking at how much older she is now, how much more Fig she is, how she’s taller and older and indisputably happier. Kristen feels. Kristen feels.

Kristen doesn’t feel like everything’s going to work out. The strain hasn’t eased. But she feels like when she fails, maybe Fig will understand. Kristen isn’t better, not in any measurable way. But she’s seen. Like with Fiona, yesterday - she's seen.

“Thanks,” Fig says, just as Kristen is about to say the same thing. “For letting me talk about it. I didn’t realize how good it would feel to get off my chest.”

“That’s not the only thing I can get off your chest,” Kristen says, and Fig snorts, like a witch’s cackle. Kristen grins at her. “Thanks for talking about it. I appreciate you trusting me with it.”

“Of course.” Fig sighs and nudges her stack of cards with her foot, a little mournful. “Fuck, I’m too tired to go back to Uno. You wanna turn in?”

Kristen looks at her hand, with its one card, and then at Fig’s, with its visible stack. “Tired. Uh-huh.”

“I aaaaam,” Fig whines, throwing herself dramatically over the game, and Kristen laughs as she wiggles theatrically to emphasize her point. “I’m a real aduuuult, I have to get sleeeep.”

“You’re a dork.”

Fig pushes herself up onto her knees. “You’re a dork,” she says, grinning.

Without thinking about it, Kristen reaches out to grab Fig around the neck and rolls them; Fig yelps and laughs into the hug, pulled over and to the side, so they’re pressed up against the wall, holding tight to each other. “Thank you,” Kristen says, smiling into Fig’s shoulder as they rock, gentle, back and forth. “Thank you for being my friend. Thank you for being around.”

“Always.” Fig gives Kristen a final squeeze before she pulls back to gather the cards back into the box. As Kristen stands, brushing herself off, she catches Fig’s smile – secret, pleased, and warm.

Kristen falls asleep to the sound of Fig humming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is from the song "it's thursday, january 12th and this is the last time i'll talk about drowning" by flatsound.
> 
> i've been excited for this chapter from the beginning - i very much viewed it as, like, a vignette episode of a tv show that focused on a character that didnt get as much attention. always a fan of projecting sad life experiences onto fictional characters & letting them heal.
> 
> catch me on tumblr @riz-gukgak or twitter @pechebeche!


	9. Stay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Riz and Fabian come home.

Here is what information Riz has gathered on the tiefling from the Black Pit: 1. His name is Vine. 2. He somehow knows about not just the Hangman, but Fig and Gorgug’s band manager, for some reason. 3. He likes cryptically implying that certain people are in danger when they are, in fact, perfectly fine – he said something haunting about checking in on Gilear, which had resulted in a panicked Fig and Riz bursting in to find Gilear doing exactly what he usually does, surrounded by yogurt. And 4. He has escaped custody.

Which is not altogether surprising. Elmville is far from a maximum security prison. And Riz had accounted for its possibility, cut off a little piece of his hair while he was there so that Adaine could scry on him and hopefully whoever he works for. But Vine just escaped this morning, and she doesn’t have the spell prepared today, and anyway Riz kind of wants to wait a couple days so Vine has time to get back to Whoever Is In Charge and get a new assignment they can drag out of him.

It’s the first time in a whirlwind of days that he has had time to breathe – or rather, that he has been forced to take time to breathe. Until they can scry, there’s nothing to be done with Vine, and until there’s more information about Vine, there’s nothing Riz can do but rearrange string on a board. Riz is at least putting in a token effort to not sit in his office 24/7. (Also his mom hid his board under pretense of it being evidence. Which, uh. Rude.)

So Riz is not working. Riz is in a comfortable hoodie from Kristen’s old university, before she dropped out. Riz showered this morning. He put in laundry. He’s only drank 4 cups of coffee instead of his usual 5 by midday.

Riz is standing on the front step of Seacaster Manor.

It’s not quite silent – Riz knows that Fabian is somewhere inside, since Adaine unofficially released him from the cell he was using. But Seacaster Manor is so big and hulking and, well, a giant boat, that it feels weird for it to be so dark and quiet, without anyone sparring or singing shanties or maid-ing or training. Riz has always thought it’s an enormous house for a full family, much less for Fabian alone.

No one answers his knock, and the doorbell’s been broken since Hallariel left, maybe a year after Fabian, smashing shit on her way out for what Riz suspects was the fun of it. It’s an easy lock to pick, though. Even though it’s been a few years since he came here for anything but painful evidence gathering, he still knows the manor like an old, especially dusty friend. It is not difficult to fall, instinctive, into stealth, to creep down the hall towards the sound of clanging. It is not hard to find the light in the kitchen – and, dropping out of stealth, leaning against the archway of the entrance with something like wonder: he looks at Fabian.

When Riz learned his dad’s line of work, he asked a lot of questions, because that’s what Riz does. His mom had explained what she could, but some things – when he asked what it was like for him to be gone, for months at a time, at sea or undercover or across the country or under an evil wizard, how she had dealt with it – some things she had smiled, a little bitter and a little sad, and said, _I can’t explain it._ She said, _I hated him when he was gone, and I hated him when he came home, and I loved him in between. It was bad and good,_ she said. _Complicated. Adult._

Riz didn’t get, when he was 16, how the coming back could be bad, but he’s complicated and adult now, and the coming back so far has sucked. Ever since Fabian walked back into Elmville, it’s sucked. And this, long overdue, is the first time that Riz has gotten to really look at Fabian. This is the first time he can get the good of coming back, too.

Fabian’s loud. That much hasn’t changed, the way he mutters under his breath to himself and clangs through drawers looking for some utensil walks with his shoulders straight and wide. Bulkier. He’s grown into his features – strong jaw, thick fingers, thin white scars decorating his arms and face. He’s leaned over, searching loudly through some sort of cupboard. And his shirt’s riding up his back, revealing –

“Oh, shit, you have a tattoo now,” Riz blurts out, and Fabian slams his head on the top of the cabinet. 

There’s a moment of mad scramble as Fabian curses and tries to extract himself from the many pots and pans within the cupboard, an effort that is actively impeded by Riz, who has climbed up to try to yank Fabian’s shirt further up his back to get a better look. “WHAT the FUCK,” Fabian says, finally pulling out into the relative open area of the kitchen, stumbling back with the newfound weight on his shoulders. 

“Dont what the fuck me, what the fuck you!” Riz scrabbles over Fabian’s t-shirt. He can kind of see it better now – some sort of pattern, it looks like celestial, the same general style that Garthy O’Brien, in Riz’s experience, is known for. “You didn’t get tattoos when you had done a million lines of snuff and it was free, I thought your body was a temple or whatever, what the fuck?” 

“I was seventeen, I can change my mind about things – get OFF of me, you could’ve just asked to look, what the FUCK - “ Fabian finally manages to yank Riz off of his back, holding him, squirming, an arms’ distance in front of him. “What are you – the Ball, why are you in my house?” 

“You didn’t answer when I knocked.” Riz futilely attempts to find purchase on Fabian’s arms so he can crawl up and give it another shot. Fabian stands resilient. Eventually Riz’s scrambling fades. He lets his arms drop to either side of Fabian’s hands as he pouts. “There were updates to the case. I figured you should be told.” Riz looks down. “You can put me down now.” 

Fabian squints at him. It hits Riz what a silly picture this makes, being dangled like a rebellious child, held up by his armpits. They make eye contact and Fabian, very slowly, grins. Riz looks up at the ceiling and bites his lip in a fruitless attempt to keep himself from giggling. It is not long before they are both laughing – in breathless incredulity of the stupidity of the situation, of how easy it was to fall into the old dynamic, of being able to laugh without having to tell themselves to stop, relief and forgiveness and silliness all in one. This is the good part, Riz thinks. 

Fabian finally sets him down, the both of them coughing for air as they recover. “You know, the Ball,” Fabian says, stumbling over and collapsing into the kitchen chair, “I’ve been on a ship for a few years, so forgive me if the times have changed, but I’m pretty certain that is still super not how you talk to people.” 

Riz waves a dismissive hand. “Pirates don’t need manners.” 

Fabian laughs again. He’s startlingly attractive like this, collapsed, legs askew, running a hand through his hair, breathless and flushed and grinning. Riz files the information away as ‘too much to handle right now.’ “Don’t let Cathilda hear you say that, she’ll ground you.” 

“Is she here? Cathilda?” 

Fabian shakes his head. “Back on the ship. She, uh, offered to keep an eye on Aelwen. Make sure she doesn’t get herself hurt too bad.” 

Right. Aelwen. Riz’s bubble doesn’t pop, but it does dim a little – back to the corkboard, to red strings and demons and plots and clues. “Right. Makes sense. I came here about the case, actually, like I said, so good segway.” He glances over at the still-open cabinet door. “Um. Unless you were in the middle of something.” 

“It’s fine,” Fabian says, a little too quickly. Riz quirks an eyebrow. “I - I, uh, was trying to, figure out. How to.” Fabian makes a face. “I’ve never had to cook before, Cathilda took care of it at home and the cook took care of it on the sea. So I – I was going to order out, but the restaurants I know closed down while I was gone, or the phone numbers don’t work, or something, so I – I was - “ He gestures widely to the kitchen. “Learning.” 

Riz glances around the room. It’s mostly bare – Fabian hasn’t had the chance to stock it, probably. May not even know what to stock it with. “So you...looked up a recipe?” 

“More or less.” Fabian shifts in his chair. He’s sitting up straighter, now, eyes darting around. “I - it’s all.” He gestures, helpless, to his crystal, where Riz can see now a very poorly-formatted recipe app, absolutely spammed with ads. “I’m trying, but it’s all. Different. Now.” 

Despite himself, Riz feels his face soften. Riz knows Fabian was gone for years, that he had seen neither hide nor hair, but – Fabian was _gone_ for years. Without technology, or news, or family, or friends. Well and truly isolated from society. Riz was so busy, being caught up in what Fabian coming back meant for him, that he forgot what coming back meant for Fabian. Everything is different. Everyone is different. 

“It’s gotta be rough readjusting on your own.” Riz lets his eyes flicker up, a quick smile, before the drop again. A quick push of air out the lungs, and he decides. “Let me help.” 

Fabian looks up, surprised. “You don’t have to do that.” 

“I want to.” 

There is a short pause. For a moment, Riz thinks that Fabian is going to reject the aid, insist that he’s Fabian Aramais Seacaster And He Doesn’t Need Anyone, but then Fabian’s eyes flick to his phone and back. “...thanks,” he says, hesitant. Cautious. Like Riz is a wild animal that Fabian has to befriend, slowly, patiently. 

Fabian is different too. He’s worked with a crew for years now. He’s done hard labor. He’s not a spoiled teenager anymore; he talks, and he tries to make up for mistakes, and he lets Riz come to him, and he doesn’t act nervous about being seen with Riz in public. Some things are the same, but things are different now. It has not occurred to Riz, before now, that the difference might be a good thing. 

“Later,” Riz says, shaking the melancholy off. Another time. “For now, you, uh, should definitely eat. I know a place we can go with some pretty good food, if you’ve got money.” 

He waits for Fabian to prove him wrong, but Fabian just breathes a sigh of relief and says, “Thank God,” without protest. 

Riz smiles. Okay. Things are different.

* * *

The Dragonfruit Café opened two and some change years ago, just down the river from Skull Cleaver Elementary. It’s run by a very sweet little halfling and his much less personable lizardfolk husband, building something up based on the exotic cuisine of the swamps. It’s the only place in town that serves the vegetarian Pad Thai Kristen likes so much, and Fig and Adaine had at one point saved the place from demonic insurrection and been promised free meals for life, so it’s become the party’s go-to food service since the closing of their high school hangouts.

It has been a while, though, so Riz thinks he’s justified in stopping short when he sees the figure behind the counter. “You’re one of the Aguefort kids,” he blurts out, before he can think.

The kobold looks up and does a double take. “D-detective Gukgak!” she squeaks, nearly dropping the stack of papers she’s perusing. She’s a thin thing, with thick, circular glasses, tall ears that flatten against her head, an apron torn up where it’s been pulled on over her horns. She scrambles to set her things aside, nearly falling off her stool as she stands at attention. “Oh my gosh, hello sir, um, I’m sorry, I didn’t, um, how can I help you, welcome to, The Dragonfruit Café, I mean – “

“Sorry!” Riz puts up his hands, a slow down and a peace offering. “Didn’t mean to scare you. I was just surprised.”

“It’s fine!” She looks more nervous, if anything, wringing her hands. It’s just about how Riz remembers her, when he was called in on Aguefort Academy’s first day: nervous, covered in blood, and babbling.  
“I, um, I wasn’t paying attention, hi, do you – if you want to take a seat, anywhere, I’ll be right over with, um, menus, thanks! Thank you for your time!” She makes a move that seems to be to grab something, but she doesn’t come back up, so Riz is forced to assume she’s hiding under the table.

He doesn’t have to look to know that Fabian’s eyebrows are inching up next to him. “…okay?” he says, slowly, half a question.

Riz shakes his head. “Teen adventurer,” he clarifies, gesturing Fabian over to his usual spot; a booth in the back corner, with visibility on the rest of the place but privacy for an adventuring party to scheme. “I’m, uh, one of the people that get called in to help when Aguefort sucks, now. Just thought she was a freshman. Didn’t know she was old enough for a job.”

“I was 16 as a freshman,” Fabian says, half-distracted, taking in the smooth earthy tones of the restaurant and the quiet acoustic music that fills it.

“I guess, yeah. You were special circumstances, though, right? Pirate homeschooling?”

“Mmm.” Fabian shifts, uncomfortable, squinting suspicious at the faux leather of the booth seats. He looks hilariously out of place, Riz thinks, watching with chin in hand. Pirate coat overtop a t-shirt, heavy scars on an eye that doesn’t have an eyepatch anymore, tan and work-roughened and dramatic and sitting in a café trying to find something to do with his hands. In a funny way, it’s kind of cute.

It’s only a minute for the waitress to drop menus off and ask about drinks, darting back to the counter before Riz can say anything. She’s quick, he’ll give her that. Riz shakes his head and opens the menu, fancy scrawl mixed with the weirdest word descriptions – another peculiar combination of the way the proprietors run the place. Riz thinks it’s fun. “I don’t know if you’ve ever had any of this before, but the seafood’s pretty good,” he offers, flicking through the pages. You’d think he’d have it memorized by now.

“I think I’d like to eat something other than seafood for once, but I appreciate it.” Fabian’s voice is wry as he flicks through, pausing on the back of the menu, eyebrows cinching together. “All ice cream is free? Weird pull for a place like this.”

Riz’s lips twitch, despite himself. “They don’t have to actually make it. When Basrar closed shop, Fig and Gorgug wouldn’t stop crying, so he gave them another bag of infinite ice cream. When this place opened up, Fig gave it to the owners as a housewarming gift, under the condition they didn’t charge for it in-store.” Riz shrugs. “It’s good advertising, I’m told.”

Fabian nods, but his shoulders deflate, just a bit. “Didn’t know Basrar closed down,” he mutters, flipping backwards again through his options.

“Yeah. Few years ago.” Riz silently takes a moment to mourn the old place, and to mentally flip off the drug store that’s taken it over since. Not that it’s their fault Basrar went out of business, but Riz hates them on principle anyway. “Said he wanted to travel. We can go down and pour out a beer over the old place later.” Riz’s eyes flick up, and then back down, quick. “If you want.”

He’s not looking at Fabian, so he’s relying on peripheral, but he thinks the tiny smile that quirks on Fabian’s face isn’t just his imagination. “Yeah,” he says. “We should.”

By the time the waitress comes back around with their drinks, Riz has settled on the usual burger and fries – what, sue him, just because it isn’t their specialty doesn’t mean it isn’t good – and Fabian has picked out some meaty salad combination and a cheese appetizer of some type. “It’s good to see you doing well,” Riz says, quickly, before the waitress can dive back again.

She finishes jotting down the order in her notepad before she replies, a little frazzled as she looks up, smiling weakly. “Thanks,” she says. “I, uh – it’s been. School is a lot different than I expected it to be.”

“I’d bet.” Riz tries to make his smile encouraging. “It was a weird freshman year for me, too. You feeling alright, though? Not too much of a workload, with a job, too?”

“Oh, I don’t work here, not officially. I’m, uh – I’m, foster, here, um, I’m staying here right now, the owners are fostering me, is what I meant to say, so I’m just, I’m trying to find ways to make myself helpful, you know, since they’ve got a lot to do. Um. That might’ve been too much information, sorry, you didn’t really ask – “

“I wanted to know,” Riz interrupts before she can talk herself into a breakdown. “I’m sure your dads appreciate it. You’re doing a great job.”

At ‘your dads,’ the kobold’s face flushes, an interesting thing to see on a scaled figure. “Thanks,” she mumbles, smiling shyly beneath her glasses. “I’ll, uh – I’ll get these orders back and out to you in a jiffy. Thanks.”

Riz feels eyes on his face as she walks away. “What?” he frowns at Fabian, turning to face him again.

Fabian – who has been watching him with a sort of bemused smile – blinks, and grins. “Nothing.”

“Really, what?”

“Really, nothing.” Fabian sits back in his seat, letting his hands come up to rest on the table. “You wanted to talk about the case, right? Hit me with it.”

Riz frowns. Fabian’s expression doesn’t change, patient and placating as Riz struggles, for a moment, whether he wants to demand information or talk about work. Finally, he sighs, pulling out his crystal so that he can reviews his notes. “So the tiefling escaped,” he starts, as Fabians settles in to listen.

It’s not easy to talk to Fabian again, per se, but it is easy to talk about the case, and it doesn’t take long for them to branch, distractible, into the many things Fabian has missed in his absence before looping back to work. No, Fabian has genuinely never seen the tiefling before, and he got the tattoo because Aelwen dared him, alright, he had just picked her up again and he was being stupid, and it gives him a +1 to his Con so he doesn’t want to just take it off. The tiefling’s named Vine, no relation to any other tieflings they met, and – no, Fig’s boyfriend has been on and off for a while, his name’s Harmond, he’s like, 40, it’s super weird, she’s really defensive about it. Kristen does have a job, actually, or maybe did, but it was a shitty job at the mall doing retail, so even though Riz is kind of worried about the fact she doesn’t really leave the apartment unless they’re dragging her, he’s pretty okay with the fact she’s either quit or stopped showing up to work entirely, it’s a bad job for her and she was miserable. Sklonda and Gorthalax are still together, Gilear’s doing fine, he’s been sleeping a ton lately but it’s probably just him being Gilear.

(I missed you, Riz says, in every word, I missed you, I missed you, as he laughs at some joke Fabian makes about his ship and sirens. It is a relief, to be able to pour it out, after so long keeping the label turned around on the shelf so he doesn’t have to look at it. I’m glad you’re back. I missed you.)

“So we’re waiting on this Averick to come around, basically?” Fabian says, unwrapping the ice cream sandwich that he finally broke down and ordered after the waitress swept through a few more times. “To give the Fallinel report on Aelwen’s activities, and go from there?”

“Basically,” Riz nods. “I still think the cases are connected, so scrying on Vine might give us a direction to go with that, but for now, yeah. Since we’re working in conjunction with Fallinel on Aelwen, we have to wait to get a go ahead from them.” He takes a bite out of his ice cream sandwich, chewing thoughtfully. “And since he was already coming to the wedding, and it’s only, like, couple weeks away – “

“Might as well just stay on schedule,” Fabian finishes, and Riz nods. Fabian notches a piece of ice cream sandwich into his mouth. At the taste of it, he closes his eyes, leans back in his seat, and sighs, almost sensual, with a look of longing and nostalgia and peace that Riz knows very well. “Fuck,” Fabian mutters. “I didn’t – it really is exactly like Basrar’s used to be. I didn’t even realize how much I was craving it.”

Riz smiles, quick, and then looks back down at his hands. Takes another bite of his own sandwich. Fiddles with his wrapper.

“Hey,” Riz says, suddenly, after a minute. Fabian looks up. “Are we…good?”

The pause is long. Too long. Riz is about to scramble back, to throw down money for the check and bolt, when Fabian says, voice careful, “I want to be. Do you want to be? Good?”

Riz’s eyes dart up. Fabian’s avoiding his gaze, too, but they happen to meet, glancing at the same time, before both looking away again, nervous and old and new and too many things at once. Riz hasn’t even thought about it. He had assumed that Fabian knew.

“I do,” Riz says, voice catching. “I want – I want things to be good. If. If you think we can.”

“Okay.” Fabian smiles, hesitant. “Then – we’re good.”

Riz blows out a breath, slouching relief. Now that the conversation’s done, he wants to brain himself, because what a stupid way of bringing it up and talking about it, real good adult communication skills dumbass. But Fabian is smiling, across the table, a little, just as nervous, thumb rubbing the rim of his glass, ears burning red. Riz finds the strength in him to smile back.

The waitress is bringing their check over. The sun is setting, in the window, setting shadows across their table – hours and hours, much longer than Riz intended to spend out, much more honest than he intended to be.

There is good in coming back, Riz thinks. Complicated. Adult. But good. Good, nonetheless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from the song stay by rihanna feat mikky ekko.
> 
> might be taking a quick break yall!! i wanted to make sure to get to this chapter before i did because i was very excited to write it, but i really really need to sit down and hash out the pacing for the next section of the story, and thats on top of things like finals and holiday shopping. im not sure if i'll be postin the next chapter a week later than usual or if i'll be skipping an update entirely and coming back in a month, but its gonna be a little extra time either way. sorry!
> 
> thank you for reading so far!! i dont respond to comments on ao3 because i dont like inflating comment numbers, but they. genuinely give me will to write. i have a file on my computer thats just screenshots of my favorites so i can look at them when i need motivation. you guys are the reason this story is still going.
> 
> catch me on tumblr @riz-gukgak or twitter @pechebeche!


	10. Runner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adaine makes a discovery. Fabian keeps a watch. Fig reconnects with old friends.

Here is what Adaine’s fifth-level scrying spell, an extremely taxing and difficult procedure, gets them: Vine the tiefling is buying drugs. Which. Wow. Big fucking surprise. Evil guy at the club full of drug dealers does drugs. Who could’ve known. 

The catch is that what Adaine sees isn’t normal drugs. Well – she thinks. Adaine isn’t in the, uh, scene. No one’s ever asked her to join, and she didn’t know how to go about getting in, so she’s running off assumptions and her vague memory of government-sponsored anti-drug advertisements. But of the limited drugs that Fig and Fabian have exposed her to, she’s never seen one that radiates a magic aura all the way across a scrying spell. 

She took it to the proper people straightaway, of course. But they hadn’t even known where to begin. Apparently this stuff is rare enough that even Captain Sklonda Gukgak, who has seen literally every type of crime the world has to offer, could only shrug. So Adaine has turned to...an unconventional source. 

_“You know,”_ Averick says over the phone, _“you'd think that knowing he’s done drugs would make me like the bossman more, and yet.” _

“Why would it make you think that?” Adaine quirks an eyebrow, even though she knows he can’t see her. 

_“I mean, you can’t be a strict asshole when you’re coked up. It’s just not physically possible.” _

Adaine sighs, purposeful, loud enough that Averick can hear it over the crystal and cackle that stupid mischief cackle of his. Varellion’s the only holdover from the Court of Stars in the Fallinel government – a compromise to end the hostilities, so that the elites of the old stock don’t feel entirely steamrolled – and while he is marginally less of an asshole than his many Extremely High Elf friends, he is still very, very annoying. But he’s been alive since basically the beginning of time and researching just as long. Between his many years of study and his frankly incredible memory, Varellion knows something about everything, the more esoteric the better. If anyone will have an answer on their mystery drug, it’s him. 

The radio towers in Fallinel where one of the first changes made after the Bad Kids’ ill-planned revolution – mostly at the insistence of Gorgug, who gained something of a cult following among the insurrectionists over the course of the whole debacle. By and large, Adaine still prefers to use Sending. No number of years or type of medication seems to put a dent in the overwhelming nausea of crystal calls. But when she needs to save spell slots or a message requires a lot of back and forth, it’s a godsend to have the option.

_“Sandralynn says hi, by the way.”_ Putting Averick on speaker is one of the little ways Adaine lessens her phone anxiety. She’s sequestered herself in an uninhabited corner of the police station so the noise doesn’t bother anyone working. It’s not hard to fade into the backdrop – her friends, whom she loves dearly with all her heart, are very dumb and very distractible. So long as she manages an exasperated thumbs up at Fig every few minutes, they’ll leave her alone. _“And also, she says screw you. And apparently you owe her bigtime for taking on your paperwork.”_

Adaine grimaces, fiddling idle with a loose strand of hair. “Tell her I love her, and drinks are on me once we’re back.”

_“Yes ma’am.”_ In her mind’s eye, Adaine can see Averick saluting her. She manages to suppress a fond eyeroll. _“So…how is he? Official report aside, ‘cause I did read that, but I want your real take. Off record.”_

Adaine perches her chin on her palm, tapping with lithe fingers over her own cheek. Her gaze wanders to the next room, separated by a long counter, where Riz has clambered up to watch over Fabian’s shoulder, walking him through how to access the settings on his crystal.

Fabian’s grown, of course. Adaine isn’t blind. But watching him talk with Riz really throws the changes stark against the limelight. Where he once took Riz’s attention for granted, now he glances out the corner of his eye after jokes, hopeful and inviting for Riz to laugh with him. Often, when they were teens, Fabian would talk at people, not to them; that discrepancy has disappeared, replaced with open gaze, nodding along as Riz speaks, responding where needed and no more.

Riz has shaved. Riz hasn’t shaved without Adaine making him in…a long time.

“It’s going well,” she says after a moment. “It’s going really well.”

_“Ooooooh,”_ Averick says, sing-song. Adaine rolls her eyes. _“If you want to go to the wedding with him, I’m sure Fig’ll let me be her plus one, give you two some time together.”_

“If you and Fig are partnered up, I’ll never get you away from her to do work.” Averick laughs over the call, a brief crackle of a noise, and Adaine smiles despite herself. “But. Yes. He’s good. Frustrating. But good.”

_“Frustrating?”_

Adaine’s mouth twists to the side, lips pursed as she considers. “He’s…” She hesitates, starts over. “There are – the, erm, the Sea Witch. Aelwen. He’s – you cannot tell anyone this, it is absolutely top secret between you and I – he wants to convince her to turn over a new leaf. Come to Solace and find amnesty.”

This revelation is met with a brief pause. _“Huh,”_ Averick says after a moment. Adaine is gearing up to defend herself against accusations of jealousy when Averick says, _“Think he’s got a shot at pulling it off?”_

Adaine pauses.

_(Aelwen Abernant is in a ball. Aelwen Abernant is 15 years old, smirking at Adaine, sent to her room to shake and hyperventilate and scream herself inside out. Aelwen Abernant is 19 years old and she has been awake for a year, always moving, never making progress. Aelwen Abernant is 17 and utterly alone. Aelwen Abernant is 21 and Adaine is screaming at her in the broken rubble of their teenage home. Aelwen is 15 and she is leaving. Aelwen is 17 and she is leaving. Aelwen is 21 and she is leaving. Aelwen Abernant is pushing and pushing and pushing, a Sisyphean task of always moving, always almost making progress, only for the rock to roll down the hill, for the clock to reset. Aelwen Abernant is always moving, and she is never moving forward.)_

“I used to know Aelwen,” Adaine says, her voice and her hand trembling despite herself. “She doesn’t want saved.”

_“You don’t think she’s changed?”_

Adaine closes her eyes and forces the tension out of her shoulders. “I don’t think she knows how,” she admits, quiet. It is not anger. It is defeat.

_“Damn. At least he’s optimistic.”_

Adaine smiles, brief, and shakes herself back into the game. “Any updates?”

_“Yeah – Varellion just got back. Says the exchange you saw was most likely Adamantine Powder.”_

She scrambles for a nearby notepad and pen, sloppily scribbling the information over the page. “Like the armor?”

_“Or the sword, yeah. Apparently, they call it that ‘cause it’s real rare and it’s real fucking strong. Varellion says he hasn’t heard tell of it in centuries.”_

Adaine is already gathering up her things. “You’re fantastic, Averick. Thank you so much.”

_“Anytime. I’ll see you in a few days, right?”_

“I’ll put on my suit and walk you home at seven o’clock sharp,” Adaine promises. Averick laughs – deep, from the stomach – and Adaine lets it carry her through the good-byes and over to her friends.

“It’s called Adamantine Powder,” Adaine says without preamble, flouncing down amidst the chatter of the group. “It’s a very rare and very strong drug, and it hasn’t been on the market for a long time.”

Riz immediately drops his grip on Fabian, smile falling as he goes into Work Detective Mode, the rest of their friends dropping their chatter to join the conversation. “Anything about it’s composition? Type of drug it is?”

“Varellion still thinks that there are four elements.” Adaine makes a face. “If I asked him what was in it, he’d tell me earth and fire. A name’s the only useful thing we’ll get out of him.”

“It’s a start,” Riz mutters, eyebrows creasing. Movement – small, insignificant – catches Adaine’s eye. Fabian has stowed his phone, and he’s. It takes a moment for Adaine to parse that he’s looking at Riz. His face is twisted with – concern? Confusion? – some unknown worry. It’s only a moment before his gaze moves past, focusing in on the task at hand, but Adaine spins a little in the lurch of…Emotional Confusion. “We can ask around, see if anyone knows more. I’ve got a few solid contacts.”

“I could ask around,” Fig pipes up. Gorgug and Kristen’s heads both swivel, too fast to be a coincidence, but Adaine doesn’t roll well for that insight check, of fucking course. “I have some friends that do, as the kids say, The Drugs. If we get really desperate, I could go to – “ she grimaces – “Harmond. He was my dealer before we dated. Crazy memory for that sorta shit.”

“Are you sure?” Kristen asks. Adaine exchanges a shrug with Fabian. It's nice to be able to count on at least one person always being less informed than she is. “I know you’re, like, not really involved with that right now.”

“Nah, it’s cool, I’ve missed out hanging out with them anyway.” Fig waves a dismissive hand, and then smiles, a little more genuine. “I’ll be fine.”

“If you say so,” Kristen mutters. Gorgug looks less than swayed. Fig catches Adaine’s eye, winks, and mouths, _I’ll tell you later._

“We should get started right away,” Riz pipes up. He’s standing on his toes to make himself look larger. “Me and Adaine can talk with official contacts, you guys can see what you dig up with Fig’s friends. Sound good?”

“Can we meet for ice cream after?” Gorgug pipes up.

There is a short pause. Gorgug pulls out puppy dog eyes.

“…yes,” Riz sighs. Kristen begins a slow clap. As everyone joins in, Adaine closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and smiles.

* * *

Riz and Adaine end up separating very quickly into the drug dealer search to cover more ground. Riz had gone off to chase some nonsense man-on-the-inside-spy-movie bullshit. Adaine’s more than prepared for the kind of combat that might show up where she’s going in Ballister, gun holstered at her side just in case. She’s not worried. She’s going to see an old friend.

At the end of a dark alleyway, dramatically cast in half shadow, smoking next to an overflowing dumpster, a perpetually stoned firbolg looks up and says, “Oh, shit, hey Adaine.”

“Hello Ficus.” She steps over a black bag that’s been left next to the container to stand in front of him, wincing at the feeling of her damp sock. It’s always raining in this part of Ballister. Adaine doesn’t know why it’s always raining in this side of Ballister. She feels like it’d be in black and white and there’d be an internal monologue, too, if someone could get away with it. “You look good. How have you been?”

“Swell.” Ficus gives her a lopsided grin, and despite herself she returns it. Ficus had finally graduated high school in the same year the Bad Kids did, and had, to Adaine’s knowledge, promptly gone back to doing exactly the same thing he always did, just in a new parking lot. He doesn’t even look that different. She’s pretty sure he’s wearing the same hat. “What are you doing in town?”

“Attending a wedding.” It’s not technically a lie. It’s only a matter of days before Adaine will have to teleport Averick in from Fallinel to attend Penny and Sam’s ceremony, and they’ve been planning the trip for months. She just…is doing other things in the meantime. “How’s business?”

He squints at her. “…you mean selling illegal drugs?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. Well, that’s going great. Why, you looking to buy?”

“Looking for information.” Adaine pulls around to root around in her bag, carefully angling it so that Boggy is in prime cuteness position on her shoulder. It’s an interrogation tactic that’s never failed her. “I’m looking for something called Adamantine Powder. It hasn’t been in circulation for hundreds of years, so it may be going by a different name, but - “ 

“Oh, shit!” Ficus brightens. “I, like, just tried that!” 

Adaine stills. “...what?” 

“Yeah, it came through, like, a week ago. A couple weeks ago? It might be like months ago. I super do not know.” Ficus shrugs, easy, pulling another drag from his cigarette. “Glittery, right? Feels like magic incarnate? That’s the shit.” 

“What - “ Adaine has so many questions. “Where did you get it? What does it do? Who did you sell it to? What’s the source? Is it a stimulant, a depressant, an opioid? What - “ 

“You,” Ficus says, swaying under the shadows, gaze blurry, “are talking sooo fast.” 

Right. It’s Ficus. She takes a deep breath. “What does Adamantine Powder do?” she says, carefully slow. 

Ficus’ eyes refocus, lighting up at a question he can actually answer. “It fucking kicks,” he says, waving his cigarette to emphasize the point. “It’s like – it's like, doing acid, but like. Like all the shit acid makes you think you can do, you can actually do. I took some with one of my regulars, and it was like – whooah. I was like, I could pick up cars. I could take a fuckin bullet and it’d be chill as hell.” 

“So it’s a hallucinogen?” 

“Nah, man. I mean – yeah, sort of. But it like...works.” Ficus spreads his hands wide. “I picked up a car for real. I went back and checked later and it had dents where my fingerprints were. Shit was crazy.”

The wind blows. It’s cold out – Adaine feels a shiver run up her legs, across her spine, like spiders dancing on her skin. “So it...boosted your abilities?” she says, frowning, rewriting her mental notes. 

“Yeah! It made me like, super powerful. And like – I was fuckin’ invulnerable, man. Shit couldn’t touch me.” Ficus pauses to tap his cigarette thoughtfully against the wall. “But, like, I was still tripping, y’know? It was all hazy and shit. I was just tripping and also I was super fucking dope.” 

A drug that makes you hallucinate _and_ gives you superhuman physical powers? Yikes. “Okay,” she says, sending a mental message to Boggy to remind her of all this later. He ribbits helpfully. “I’m trying to track down someone who’s dealing in this. Who did you sell it to?” 

Ficus stares. The moment drags uncomfortably long, until Adaine shifts in place, rubbing her arms against the goosebumps. “We aren’t actually interested in the trafficking at this point,” she says, a little defensive, “if you want a guarantee that we won’t press charges on the drug possession itself, then - “ 

“No, dude, it’s not that.” Ficus blinks, but his gaze – wise, large, round – does not move, fixed curiously on her movements. “I just...thought you knew. I thought they were, like, in contact with you.” He cocks his head. “They - I mean, they at least told you he was alive, right?” 

“Told me _who_ was alive?” Adaine snaps, scowling. 

Ficus slowly straightens up. He meets Adaine’s gaze. 

“Bill,” he says, like it’s plain as day, cigarette forgotten by his side. “The couple who bought the powder off me. Bill and Hallariel Seacaster.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> its my birthday so legally no one is allowed 2 be angry at me for how late im posting this. dont worry abt it. everythings cool. its FINE. i said its FINE
> 
> title is from the song runner by kevin abstract. catch me on tumblr to yell abt gay d20 @riz-gukgak!


	11. Sun in an Empty Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fabian reminisces. Kristen drops some lore. Gorgug takes care of his friends.

The third time that Fabian saved Aelwen Abernant, he did not sleep that night.

Aelwen didn’t sleep, either – not at first, anyway. She was sitting on the edge of her bed, the big double she and Fabian shared. The ship – Hangman III – was ornate, a gift from Garthy for Fabian’s eighteenth birthday, and the lavish captain quarters displayed this best of all, hung with velvet and ivory and what Fabian thought might actual be pure gold laced into the curtains. Most of it, he’d moved to the crew’s quarters and the galley, but he’d kept some splendor – mostly for Aelwen’s sake, since they’d mutually agreed to share the title between them. A little for his own sake, too.

“I’m not going to disappear,” Aelwen snapped, and Fabian startled.

Fabian was – sitting. He wanted to say he was doing more than that, but he, uh. Wasn’t. He’d propped himself up in the chair next to his never-used desk with a real ink quill and everything, splayed casually over the chair legs, and he was just…watching. Sitting. “I don’t think you’re going to disappear,” Fabian protested.

Aelwen rolled her eyes. She had a new scar – wicked, down the right side of her face, almost a match for the faded one on Fabian’s cheek except that hers went over the bridge of her nose, not her eye. “Then stop looking at me,” she snapped, dipping her washcloth in the little bowl of water that Cathilda brought down, squeezing out the excess before rubbing it, again, over her gashed ribcage. “I’m not going to fuck you right now, either, if that’s what you’re waiting for.”

Fabian’s stomach churned. He pushed it down and raised an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t fuck while you’re actively wounded, Aelwen.”

“Then stop staring.”

“I – “ Fabian looked away, and then looked back. Something about watching felt like it mattered. Aelwen did not have the anxiety that plagued her sister, had not once in her life tried to disappear into a crowd – in fact, she had done the opposite, had gone out of her way to be big and bright and blinding to everyone who met her, like a flash bomb, like a train wreck: impossible to see, but impossible to look away from. “You know, you don’t have to do that alone. I can help.”

Aelwen skated the washcloth up her stomach, over one of her breasts. The casual way Aelwen approached nudity was something Fabian came to miss in the years after they agreed to keep it platonic; there was something relieving about seeing the curves of her naked body, stretch marks and scars and long legs, and knowing that there was no sexual expectation in it at all. It was stymied, in this particular memory, by the open gash along her torso, but the sentiment can’t be completely undone. “I’ve got it, thanks,” Aelwen said coolly, wringing the blood out of the rag.

Fabian looked away again. There was a long window on one side of the quarters that stretched out the breadth of the ship, with a view of the ocean expanding. It was vast, infinite – a comfort in its own right. The freedom to do whatever the hell he wanted; to take the ship to the other end of the ocean, the coasts of Somewherica where he knew no one and no one knew him, where Bill Seacaster had not etched his name, where no one had, maybe, to pick up and leave everyone, everything – 

(he is sitting watching aelwen on the bed, riz is sitting watching him on the bed – )

“Are you going to talk to Adaine?” Fabian blurted out.

Aelwen paused. The water – the blood – was the only sound in the room, drip, drip, as she met his gaze. “No,” she said evenly.

Fabian frowned. “She – just because you two fought – she still loves you, wants to know that you’re, safe – “

At _loves_, Aelwen’s hand went tight on the rag. She dropped it in the bowl a little too hard, flexed her fingers slow over her legs, drip, drip. 

“Contrary to popular belief,” Aelwen said, a little icy, “I am not a misled little girl that exists solely to give Adaine closure.”

Fabian leaned back. “I didn’t – “

“Think?”

“Mean it like that.” Fabian shook his head. “I just – don’t you want to see her? Don’t you miss her?”

For a moment, Aelwen’s face distorted into – something, a snarl, or grief, or laughter, but something. She shook her hair in front of her face before Fabian could read her, holding her arms close, tight, like she could shield herself from the world with them if she could just grow skin thick enough.

“No,” Aelwen said.

Fabian didn’t need an insight check to know that was a lie. “We can go back to Solace,” he said, and he couldn’t help but let his voice grow briefly excited by it, the prospect that maybe he didn’t have to choose, maybe he could write his name and have his friends. “We can talk to – Riz’s mom got promoted to chief of the Elmville police, and you know Aguefort’s got some sway, we could – “

“I am not going to _leech off my baby sister’s old teachers_ because I couldn’t handle myself!” Aelwen snapped, looking up, sharp, to meet Fabian’s eye.

There was a moment of tense silence. Finally, Aelwen sighed and let herself collapse. “At least,” she whispered, looking at her hands, soaked in her own blood, “at least the first time I was captured – it was because _I_ did something. Not because…” Her wrist went tense, and loose, and tense again, over and over, cycles and cycles. “I can’t – “ her voice broke. “I’m not good at relationships, Fabian, you know that. I can’t…I can’t keep. I can’t do this, with her, anymore.”

The cabin went quiet again. Fabian looked out on the ocean, and thought of the ransom note left for the Elven Oracle’s sister, and thought of Adaine, a year ago, before the disappearance, coming home from the remains of her old house and slamming the door behind her. He thought of Aelwen hovering as Adaine changed her last name to O’Shaughnessy. He thought of Bill Seacaster, and the thick lines he’d painted of himself over Leviathan, Solace, Fallinel, Spyre. He thought of a new world, on the other side of the ocean. He thought of the last time he saw Gorgug and Kristen – maybe would ever see them – in the lunchroom, tossing grapes into each other’s mouths, Gorgug falling off the chair to try to catch one and Kristen cackling. He thought of Riz’s unconscious body on the Bloodrush field, where it would always be, in his mind’s eye.

Neither of them said anything. Aelwen picked the washcloth back up, drip, drip, and Fabian watched her in silence until morning.

* * *

“Kristen,” Fabian says, now, in the present. “Would you indulge a question of mine?”

Kristen, who is currently struggling to prop Fabian’s screen door open with just her foot, does not look up from the various bags she’s balancing in her arms. “Is it a phone thing? ‘Cause if it is, I get to make fun of you for being old.”

“Riz is teaching me about phone things.” Fabian reaches over Kristen’s head to pull the door open for her, propping it up against his side as he maneuvers his own groceries across his hands. The moment they had split into search-for-the-secret-magic-drug teams, Fig had loudly announced that everyone was ‘cramping her style’ and that she would handle getting in touch with her ex without them. Which Kristen, Gorgug, and Fabian had all agreed was suspicious. They were going to trail her to make sure she didn’t hook up with her ex, but Fabian had casually asked if they were going for ice cream later at the same place he and Riz went to earlier this week, which forced Fabian to explain the desolate conditions of his kitchen. The mixed look of horror and pity Kristen gave him is maybe the saddest any of his friends have been since he’s come back. Including Riz’s you-murdered-me look.

So the shitty beat-up van that Gorgug, Fig, and Zaphriel currently call home is parked in Fabian’s driveway, absolutely bursting with groceries. Well, not bursting anymore, because Fabian is bringing in so many bags. More than Kristen is, probably. He’s the grocery bag master.

“Okay, first off, that means nothing, you are not in, like, a committed relationship with Riz’s phone teachings,” Kristen says, ducking under Fabian’s arm where he’s holding the door open. In retrospect, Fabian thinks as they stumble into the kitchen to find Gorgug squinting very hard at Fabian’s cabinets, it was probably bad planning to put Gorgug on food organizing duty. “More than one person can teach you phone stuff. You can phone cheat. It’s cool.”

“This is a suspicious amount of interest in my phone.” Fabian nudges Gorgug to one of the cabinets as he sets his bag down. “This is where Cathilda used to keep the perishables – just, ah, you know how kitchens are usually organized better than I do, but if it helps.”

“Got it,” Gorgug says, and continues to put perishables on the opposite side of the kitchen.

“I can’t make fun of you if Riz is teaching you,” Kristen says as she squeezes room on top of the oven for her own groceries. Fabian rolls his eyes and ducks back out towards the car. Kristen trails after him, quick, adding, “Plus, Riz doesn’t have anything downloaded on his phone, and you are gonna love Instagram once you’re used to it, man, it was made for you.”

“What’s Instagram?”

Kristen grins. “Photo app. It’s all about being hot and having no redeemable personality traits. Just your style.”

Fabian wrestles her into a noogie before she can dart away; she cackles under his arm, dipping back out to the van to load up on groceries once more. The low sound of what seems to be royalty free beach music emanates from Zaphriel’s ruby in the van, a different model from the one Gorgug drove in high school but just as banged up. For a moment, Fabian feels a pang of – not quite nostalgia, but a kinder version of it, a longing to be exactly where he is right now.

“What’d you wanna ask?” Kristen says when they’re reaching into the trunk for grocery bags, arm to arm.

Fabian hesitates for a moment. Well – he’s already started asking. “So…you said that you can’t talk to _Yes?_ anymore, right?”

Kristen doesn’t falter. Fabian doesn’t know if that’s a good sign or not – Kristen can be hard to read when she isn’t actively pouring her heart out. “Yep,” she whistles as she grabs the jug of milk – the last thing left in the van. “Hey Zaph,” she calls into the car, “mind closing the trunk?”

_“No problem, my dudes~”_ Zaphriel hums lazily from what used to be a gear shift. The trunk of the van swings shut a Fabian and Kristen duck out of the way.

“So,” Fabian says cautiously. “That means you…stopped following Cassandra?”

Kristen gives him a strange look. “What makes you think that?”

“Because when I left, you were following them?” Fabian pulls the front door of Seacaster Manor closed behind them as they pad inside, Gorgug’s shuffling through the kitchen distinctly louder now that the bulk of the food is inside. “And you didn’t mention them the other day? And, like – I don’t know, that was weird? Don’t – you’re looking at me like I’m stupid, this is a good question, okay, shut up.”

Kristen grins. “This is how I always look at you.”

“It is _not.”_

On return to the kitchen, Gorgug is conspicuously absent – a question that is immediately answered when he pops out from a floor-to-ceiling cabinet that Fabian, to be frank, did not realize was possible to open. “Hey,” he grins at Fabian around the door. “We should scare the others the next time they come over. We could just – you’ve got, like, so many weird little places to hide in this house, we could totally do a Halloween thing.”

It’s incredibly stupid, but something in Fabian’s heart goes bright and warm at the casual way Gorgug says next time – like it’s a given that everyone is going to come over, to want to see Fabian. “I may be amenable,” he says, a little stiff, as he starts unpacking the grocery bags onto the counter. “Get over here and work, and we’ll see.”

Gorgug goes straight-backed in a salute and then ducks back into the kitchen proper, setting to work putting boxes away while Kristen searches for a fruit bowl. “Anyway,” Fabian says, turning back to Kristen. “I just don’t get the – god situation, I guess.”

“Yeah, sure.” Kristen squints in at his pots and pans. (Something very silly, in Fabian, thinks of Gorgug joking about scaring people, and the last time he was looking at his kitchenware, and Riz scrambling up his back in a flurry of movement. His heart pings again, that nostalgia-but-not. He smiles.) “It’s – fuck, dude, I do not remember which shit happened before and after you left. Did we start making Fallinel get better about gods before you left? Were you here for that?”

Fabian pauses to think for a moment. “The uprising? Uh…oh shit, yeah I was, ‘cause there was that, my grandfather was there, and we had that whole thing – “

“ – the grapes thing, right right right.” Kristen nods sagely. “So – uprising happens, you leave. Some shit goes down with Galacaea and Cassandra and we get it sorted out. Cassandra’s in charge of, like, helping build a new elf world order or whatever, right? And reconnecting with their sister and all that shit. So, like – I’m a fuckin’ saint, and I can be the magic Pope or whatever.”

“Sure.”

“But…” Kristen taps her fingers on the floor where she’s crouched. “Fallinel’s got its own shit. Right? There’s – they have the oracle, and the Undying Court, and then their gods pick a chosen one. And they all gotta be Elven. So if I’m Cassandra’s chosen one, they can’t be part of Fallinel. And they, like, super need to be a part of Fallinel.”

Fabian frowns, leaning against the counter. “Who's the magic pope then?”

“Haven’t found ‘em yet.” There is a great clanging noise as Kristen triumphantly extracts a dusty ceramic bowl from the various cooking tools surrounding it. “They’ve been looking forever, but no dice. But like – the point is, I had to rescind the whole sainthood thing.”

“Oh.” Fabian...doesn't know what to say to that. “That sucks.”

“Nah, it’s fine.” Kristen brushes off her pants as she stands, setting the bowl on the counter. “It, honestly – as above, so below, right? So I could make Yes? anything I wanted, ‘cause I was its only follower. And I kind of…gave it to Cassandra? So technically it’s a minor god for Cassandra, the same way that, like, Helio is for Sol. So I’m still following them, and I get to decide what it is I’m following 100%. And – “ Kristen gestures widely. “Being an official is a lot of bureaucratic stuff. Being here, with the people who actually need help, doing something – that’s what it’s about.”

Fabian – who has completely abandoned his attempts to help with unpacking groceries at this point, and has instead perched his chin in his hand, watching Gorgug and Kristen bounce around each other with something like bemusement – nods. “That’s fair. Still – since you’re not getting magic anymore. Can’t you, like, call Cassandra up temporarily, until you figure out what happened to _Yes?”_

For the first time, Kristen – unphasable, quick-wit Kristen – goes still.

“Uh,” she says. “Cassandra…has also not been answering me.”

_What?_ Fabian thinks. “WHAT,” Gorgug says, popping out from the fridge to stare at her aghast.

Kristen looks – almost sheepish. “It’s not a big deal,” she mumbles. “I just – I figured, y’know, they have to be a little more distant, since they’re in the celestial plane all the time now, and…and shit’s…” Kristen swallows in the dead silence that follows. “They’re – I mean, I’m sure they’re fine. Right?”

Fabian and Gorgug make eye contact. “Uhhhhhhhhhh,” they say, almost in tandem.

“It’s – “ Kristen brushes her arm uncomfortably. “They’re still – Averick’s still getting word from them. So it’s – it’s not like they’re in trouble.” She laughs, almost bitter. “Just me. Being a fuck-up. The usual.”

Gorgug shuts the fridge door, walks over, and hugs her.

There’s a moment before she melts into it, lets her arms come up hesitant around his back and cling to his jacket. “That sucks,” Gorgug says, perching his chin on her head. “Lack of communication – that’s, like, rule number one in any relationship. And it’s not your fault. And it sucks. Okay?”

Kristen sniffs something into his jacket that Fabian can’t hear, and Gorgug clings a little tighter.

Fabian – shouldn’t be seeing this, he feels like. He’s not – good, at comforting people. And especially not at this brand of comforting people. It’s – he’s never experienced it, before this last month watching his friends like this, but now it’s – it's not inescapable, or anything, but…

The way Fig grimaces when anyone brings up touring – the way Kristen clings to Gorgug – the way that every time Riz pulls out his detective work, his smile disappears.

(And that one stings particularly hard, the Riz one, because the whole reason Fabian left him was to make Riz happy, and it feels – every time he realizes that he’s been staring at Riz a little too long, searching for signs that he did the right thing, that Riz is living a life he enjoys, doing what he wants to do. Every time Riz talks tenderly to a kid from Aguefort, or mentions his mom, or jokes around with Adaine. Every time he comes back to the mystery, and it all disappears.

Fabian is just pretty sure the universe is slighting him, personally, y’know?)

It’s just – Fabian Did It. He went out and did the damn thing. High school freshman Fabian would be delighted – not about everything, but a whole lot of it. Fabian’s pretty comfortable with who he is being who he’s always been. And he just…he was on the ocean, and they were on land, and their lives were so different, and he doesn’t…

He banishes the thought. It takes several very long minutes of awkwardly putting groceries away while before Kristen pulls back from Gorgug’s embrace, sniffling. “Thanks,” she mutters. “I’m…it’s all. Shit’s fucked.”

“Shit’s fucked,” Gorgug agrees sagely. Kristen snorts.

Fabian finishes putting up the peanut butter and maneuvers around the two of them to hold Kristen’s shoulder. “Hey. It’s…I don’t, uh. Obviously, I’m not much help. But. If you need anything.” He shrugs at her, half-smiling. “I believe in you.”

Kristen actually laughs at that, as the bardic inspiration settles in her gut, and it feels good, to spread goodness. She pulls him into a hug before he can resist – not the deep cry-hug she and Gorgug shared, just a quick wrap of arms around his neck, before pulling away, wiping her eyes on the back of her sleeves. “Alright,” she says, to herself. “Alright. Crying over. Emotions are for nerds. Ice cream time.”

“That’s the spirit!” Gorgug says cheerfully. It’s not…a totally healthy way of looking at it, but Fabian will take it.

It doesn’t take too long to finish putting the groceries away, between them – not once they’ve started actually focusing on what they’re doing. It’s a matter of minutes before Zaphriel is puttering down the road, humming along to a radio station that seems to be 24/7 Jimmy Buffet songs. The restaurant is a much faster drive away than it was a walk – one moment, Kristen is scribbling down a lasagna recipe on his counter, and the next they are slamming doors in the parking lot.

The bell above the door tings softly when they open it. Fabian has just enough time to glance around – to clock Riz and Fig, not quite the same booth he and Riz sat at but near it – before a hand physically yanks him aside. “Wh – “

“Did you know?” Adaine demands in a snarl, glaring up at him.

Fabian recoils. He glances helplessly across the room and makes hard eye contact with Riz, who shrugs. Out of the corner of his eye, Fabian thinks he sees the kobold waitress from the other day walk in from the kitchen and walk straight back out. “Did I know what?”

“Did you know about your fucking _dad?”_ Adaine snaps, and Fabian’s world flips upside down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey y'all, it's been a while!!
> 
> between spring semester (which is always hard for me), the liveshow Really Truly fucking up my plans for this fic so bad, and quarantine, this fic got put into a kind of accidental hiatus for a while. i've actually been really nervous about posting to it, and i am incredibly grateful to the recent commenters who let me know there was still interest, because y'all are. pretty much the only reason i got up the courage to post again. i'm not going to be able to promise to post on schedule again quite yet, just because i still have another week or two for my class finals, but im really hopeful that i'll be able to get back on it after that!!
> 
> sophomore year is definitely canon to this story, but a lot of what i was going to deal with and what sophomore year dealt with, by virtue of being the same basic premise of Fantasy High....Two!, overlapped. none of thats a problem - just please be patient with me for the Inevitable Infodumps as i bridge the gap between what i'd written before and canon, lmao
> 
> title is from the song sun in an empty room by the weakerthans. really excited to be back y'all!!


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